Glitter Rinks and Ghost Stories

We laced up like armor,

bubblegum pink and reckless,

ankles wobbling toward neon dreams—

the rink was a time machine

spinning ABBA and second chances.

Madi wore her Walkman like a crown,

said heartbreak sounds better

under disco lights and static.

We believed her.

We believed everything

at seventeen.

Our glossed-up lips told lies to the boys

in band tees who watched

from the arcade shadows—

but we weren't there for them.

Not really.

It was about the rush

of wheels over polished ghosts,

about chasing our reflections

as they blurred in mirrored walls

like versions of ourselves

we hadn’t met yet.

You spilled secrets like glitter

on the rink floor—

shimmering,

irretrievable.

Said your mom missed your birthday,

said love felt like chewing foil.

I nodded,

pretending I knew

exactly what you meant.

Later, we shared a cherry slushie

like communion,

laughing too loud

for how close we were to crying.

The bathroom stall was a confessional.

The parking lot, a runway

for girls who learned

how to perform

being okay.

We carved circles in liminal space,

half sugar, half ache—

burning bright

under flickering starlight bulbs

that hummed

you’re still young,

but not for long