There’s a fire drill 
and turns out I’m not 
the only person I’ve ever met 
who needs a psychiatrist. We’re not 
even sixteen and his voice is moist with 
the not-asking why I’m here, how long I’ve 
been coming. Do I like it? Unvoiced, un-looked-for, 
even. At the beach we’re telling people we’re brother 
and sister – can’t you see we have the same smile? 
And they believe us, even though my eyes are 
green, his whiskey-dark. We both have curly 
hair and cheekbones for days, though. We 
ooze charm as our pockets rattle with 
pills, our hands shake even when 
we’re holding each other. 
Betsie Flynn is a Kentish transplant to the Brecon Beacons with two children and two cats, but only one husband. Intersections between cultural timescapes, landscapes, and skyscapes intrigue her. She is a fledgling Tweeter @betsieflynn.
header: Joyce Huis via Unsplash