There is no such thing as the body of a fourteen year old, no such thing as the body of a sixteen year old. During those years, we are little more than crime scenes with tongues that simultaneously desire to carve ice cream from cones and fluids from bodies. We tempt such sins to the point where we are guilty of them, as if we committed them ourselves, and our lips never need part for it to be so.

I was an anxious criminal; my mouth took on the appearance of chewed-up bubblegum, engorged and pink from trembling teeth. Those teeth, budded like pearls after years of being fertilized by saliva dewing onto my gums each morning, made me a clam to men – something to open for the beauty inside. And I would be torn open, if need be. A crime scene.