We drink on the tracks behind our old school, tucked under the exhale of pines. Only a streetlight from the church blinks us into shapes. We pass warm beer, syrupy rum, swishing it in our mouths. Mosquitoes gnaw at our ankles, pass out on our blood. Sweat makes our skin slick. After a few swigs, my laughter grows teeth; my breath clings to my chest. I daydream of my childhood home down the road, like it’s a comet waiting for me to grab its tail. My parents, a deadweight. Tonight, though, I'm alive, drunk on cheap liquor and old ghosts.
A Turkish writer, Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, The Kenyon Review, The Masters Review, Trampset, and Fractured Lit, among other journals.