What is Happening to Her. Being one’s own subject.

by townmayor

Hard breath and oven heat.  We were in the shipyards, the docks, the industry. The taste was nostalgic, like when she was young, touching boys in the garage.  He laid his head down flat and she saw the winking light in the yard. Denial.

Busted lip.  Anger.

There’s two memories.  A man chases her through the parking garage. Fucking Cunt! He’s so close, ready to grab her hair. And, then I’m twelve again. The boy from summer camp takes off his shirt and it’s like I’ve never seen a man’s back before. Don’t you wanna look at me, again? Bargaining.

Dear father, forgive me, for I have found terms that are not my own. Two men drink beers in the back room, and she pulls the strings through her body. They start at her fingertips, but weave through her shoulders and hold her mouth hostage. It reminds her of yarn. Depression.

It makes me alone, again. Acceptance.

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