My Cardboard Balcony

You Wanna See Angels by Belinda Roddie You can't make gold from sand, and you can't bury yourself on the moon. You wanna see angels perched on your window sill, whispering to you that there is a place in Heaven for you, as long as you'd just stay off the cheap beer and cigarettes for a couple more days.

Marcus was an overachiever, and so was Margaret. Max didn't care. She stood in the front yard as her siblings kept tucked away in their rooms, working on complicated calculus problems and massive history essays and God knows what else. Max wasn't interested in any of that. She just listened to music and smoked. Her mom was watching her outside the second story window. She didn't have to look behind her to know that. She was considering blowing the smoke right at her as a symbol of "Go away," but she understood, deep down, that it wouldn't deter an overly concerned parent.