White chalk rubbed off onto her fingertips,
Causing a gritty scrape when she rubbed her hands together.
Her palms damp like a towel after the beach,
The sweat streaked across her deep red jeans as she swiped her hands back and forth.

Breathe.
Her forest green eyes pull shut quickly,
Forcing the salt of her tears fall down to her mouth.
Hanging from the brim of her bottom lip,
A tear falls, staining her light grey t-shirt.

The white chalk now lays solemnly on her thigh,
Radiating off of her maroon pants.
Running her fingers through her tan, tangled knots,
Her hair hung downwards,
As if the ground were pulling it further and further away.

Grabbing the bottle to her left and the water to her right,
She tosses the chalky, white pills down her throat.
One, two, three, four, five.
Choking on her memories, she could hear her mother crying.
Shut up, shut up.
Pushing the bottom of her palm into her ears,
She bent over, blocking out the sound.

Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.
Her best friend giggling and her sisters princess heels clicking on the floor,
She closed her eyes, blocking out all of the visions.
“Come on, Bea, let’s go,”
Her older brother knocking at the door.

Leave me alone.
The white chalk smeared on her lips,
Then falling off of her chin.
Picking up the glass of water one more time,
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

A wooden spoon stirring tonight’s dinner,
The air-conditioning blowing quietly by her feet.
One branch tapping on her window,
The wind pushing it towards her.
She climbed off of the bed and laid on the ground,
Absorbing every last sound she could.

Pencils and old notebooks next to her head,
The smell of her high school swam next to her.
Lavender walls and pale yellow pillows,
She runs her fingers through the grey, sand-ridden carpet.

The smell of her best friend’s shampoo;
The color of the tile in her high school cafeteria.
Wiping her tears away,
She was left with nothing but white chalk smeared under her eyes.

Inhaling once more,
She breathed in the smell of her grandfather’s boat,
The taste of her little sisters Easy-Bake-Oven cakes,
And the dainty curls on her mother’s head.

Oxygen gone now,
Her hand lays open,
Holding a picture of her family and a note saying “I’m sorry,”
Smothered in white chalk.