He doesn’t see me. I see everything.
We arrive by the car-full, speeding, sugar-high, nerves jangling, as some of us are new to the weekend fuzzy communal trust fall.
I wonder if Richard and Erma are my real parents.
He said, “That’s not how a man should sound.”
This version of our world no longer exists, so I’m guarded.
The skin was repulsive, like a snake or cicada’s, a reminder that he’d shed it, but was alive somewhere close.
It’s past time for a trim.
Mommy like a Cutco knife through a cantaloupe.
Over and over and over, hopping, falling, flailing… until one day it worked.
I am 20 years old. I am someone who has sex. I am someone men want. I am someone men want to fuck.