there are times when the world is crisp on our tongues, the scent of february gripping his shoulders, gripping the skin exposed through the rips in my stockings. they lace, tighter, our fingers.
there are times when i’m feeling defiant and i break the skin of his thoughts and he retracts like this:
he commands his brain to snatch his hand away from mine and it feels like ripping tape from tissue. the air cools my bleeding palm. i stare at the ground before me as i walk. my oldest brother used to make fun of me for doing that. I didn’t look anyone in the eye.
the only shape i knew was the concrete curvature of the backs of sidewalks.
◖◗ 