But underneath that brittle, casual layer is a misguided chivalry, a sense that because I am a girl, I am someone who survived, but because he is a boy, he is someone who was weak and careless.
He does that startle response I know I’ve done with him. It’s fast, almost imperceptible, each of us settling into recognizing who’s touching us within a quarter of a second.
An unintentional assumption hangs between us, that this is something I had written on my body after what happened to me, a kind of reclaiming. Instead of what it is, an emblem I had before it happened, one that sometimes feels anachronistic on my own skin.
refusing to bind oneself to a particular course of action
Sure, everyone liked Jess when she was at Astin, but in the muted, noncommittal way people like the smart girl who shares her class notes or keeps the spreadsheets for any club she joins.
It’s a mess, but a mess that looks more like a disarrayed catalog than a bedroom—clothes with tags still on, new makeup in its boxes. I try not to step on the sweaters and skirts left on the floor.
any spatial attributes, especially as defined by outline
I slide open the window, push out the screen, and swing myself into the nearest branch of that great oak. The contours of its boughs lead me down, and I could swear the wind is letting out a breath.
I am no more solid than pink sugar and flour. My flesh is the crumbling dough of pan dulce. My skin dissolves like a sugar shell. I am something to be prodded, and broken apart, and consumed.
glass formed by the cooling of lava without crystallization
This is a storm like the stories my abuela told me, legends of screaming winds carrying blades of obsidian. Except instead of the glittering white of the coldest snow, or the gleaming black of obsidian glass, this is the searing silver of broken mirrors.
We are already witnesses to each other’s assaults, and I can’t blame them for not wanting to fray what I’m guessing is a pretty tenuous case. A brown girl and a boy from a dust-road town, against families who have their names on plaques all over the county.
They give us this instruction, not to talk to each other about that night, almost apologetically. As though Lock and I really want to rehash the details.
Blood work records attest to the state of the boy I left in the emergency room, and an admitting nurse will testify to the lipstick found on him when they checked him for injuries.
Created on Tue Oct 12 13:28:31 EDT 2021
(updated Mon Oct 18 15:55:02 EDT 2021)
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