On a Saturday night in September I am wrapped up with a boy in between sheets that look like photographs of my parents’ wedding. The next morning I flee to his bathroom, look in the mirror, see bruises like rats’ heads trailing my too soft abdomen, come close to fainting on his bed with my head in his lap and ***** stuck in my throat, strong sweat pasted to my forehead. His palm is on my head. He is calling me by another girl’s name and I am feeling like 12 years old again, like 12 years old I am fainting after somebody talks about ****.
Another night in October the moon is bright and full like the belly of a pregnant woman. I find myself alone again in a bathroom with eyes red as the breath of a newborn. I hate myself in cycles, the way water does, my flesh like the skin of moths. This boy is still calling me by another girl’s name, if he calls me at all. But his voice when I hear it sounds like my old baby teeth.
November I should not let anybody hold me in the way that I am. November I find my body lying flat against hard pavement listening to songs about roads and graveyards and driving. I still don’t know how to drive. This boy does, though, and I tell him that this is why I still talk to him. But he sees the way my fingers tear at the crooks of my knees as if they were cadavers. He offers up his body to me like a lamb’s head. But I am no god, no saint, and he knows this. He does not come for me.