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They named her Roach.
I called her a term of endearment now forgotten.
I don’t know if she did a lot of drugs,
or if her house was infested.

I never stopped them from mocking her.
She forgave me.

She was two years older and shorter than I.

She smelled of Marlboro Reds and something more earthy.

She always had dark circles under her eyes.
I never asked her what kept her up at night.

She had black rooted, limp blond hair she would put in her mouth when excited.
She wore a uniform of dark heavy metal shirts and torn acid wash jeans every day.

She would show me endless metal magazines with pictures of Guns-N-Roses and Poison.
Born without a rebel soul, I looked at these pictures of sweaty, white men and thought them dirty.
I could only witness her delight.

I wished she were as beautiful as the Almost Famous chick or as tragic as The Rose.
I wished others were nicer to her.

She was my friend who always saved a seat for me on the bus home.

We free fell out of each others lives, when I learned to drive.

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