BE QUIET
My jeans squelch with dirty water.
Dirt crusts my fingernails.
The taste of mud and dead fish coats my tongue.
Algae dangles from my hair.
My friends barely acknowledge me in the backseat of the car.
They’re laughing about a stupid blonde joke.
I pull a leech off my arm, keeping a hand on the wound.
“Can someone roll down the window?” I ask, shivering.
“This smell is killing me.”
The laughter stops.
The friend driving pulls down the mirror and looks at me.
“You drowned in a pond five years ago.”
He looks at the road again.
“Be quiet.”
