shes the angel with the bowed legs, eyes lined like pages we rip from our notebooks, small hands cupping wine glasses. she was death. she was his.

he held her hands like stones to skid across water, he took her body like the butcher’s best cut to feed to the dogs. her body bares no scars but her soul is grazed. the word ‘****’ cuts through her; flashing, a glowing neon sign in a dark street. if only there had been others to save her on that street.

i saw him, dressed in brown, his jeans too long and his hair too short. he asked me what i write.

i told him about angels with bowed legs.

i told him about girls who’ve been broken by men.

i never told him about the girl he *****

as the conversation changed to plans for summer; drunken nights and hazy days and pretending to be in love with girls who’s names no one remembers.