The same girl with the most extreme opinion draws her lines in sharpie. Won’t speak to anyone who colors outside them.
I remain her friend because my spine is too loose to hold true under weight.
She keeps saying “If you disagree, you’re part of the problem,” and I justify our friendship by telling myself that holding still, keeping quiet, lets me hear past her static.
But somewhere underneath it bothers me that I don’t stand up and say what the **** are you blabbing about, you idiot.
It feels like a bulge under my jugular notch. That pressure when someone’s talking and you want to speak but must wait your turn.
A tingling, burning sensation just behind the sternum.
If it had looks, it’s the flame of a candle someone just put the lid back on. It slowly extinguishes, leaving smoke to fill the vacuum.