Fifteen, and there was a dark thing growing in each of us while we sat on chlorine soaked bedroom floors, picking at our skin and teaching each other to lip bite, dick suck, twist and twist and not make a noise. There is nothing more dangerous than girls with braces who see the wicked backhand motions of men too early. E’s was pink, fleshy, full of pores, and swelling with breath. It sneezed at the bottom of her stomach one time, but she laughed so that none of us would hear it. I don’t know if O ever saw her’s, but I think she listens to it when it lies beneath concrete- bump in the rug that you never stop tripping over. If I had to guess, pale gray, centerfold of fresh magazine pulsing with plastic and too-big margins. Mine is steel wool. Mine is greasy fingers. Mine is still here, still here, still here.
They followed us to this coast, and it’s hard to step freely in a new city where you can feel everyone staring at your shadow, judging the excess lump of it.
But where do we put it? Is there a storage unit for this?