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Description
What of young girls with the first tastes of lukewarm lust in their thighs? No matter that their blisters from softball are possessed of more heat. What bears a breast will one day milk.

What of love letters? Of speaking-seeking gel pens in an assortment of colors with their heads pressed to sheets of loose leaf paper, much like the desperate palms of a 13 year old boy, without quite as much mess?

I wrote some myself, once. I sacrificed quarters to the Grocery Store Novelty Machine Gods so that I might wear a bit of tin and cut-coloured plastic on my ring finger, whose identity was ever changing between the middle and the truth. I kissed what parts of my shoulders and arms my lips could reach, and wondered over the textures of lip on lip.

My tongue, examined carefully in the mirror. Useless article, unable to tie cherry stems in knots, unable to roll, unable to unwrap candy.

What was I supposed to do with it?

Dangerous to kiss a boy. Better to share a pencil, best a pen, scored with his teeth marks and damp with spit. Such intimacy between desks in Algebra, in the humid afternoons with the sounds of the world seeping in through classroom windows. That desk is your world, Algebra the master, the pen the Ultimate Dream.

I\'d share a stick of gum with you. Not chew it first (gross). Break it in half Peel back the sugar dusted silver wrapper, leaving a delicate thumb print on soft spearmint. Sharing, like kindergarten, or marriage.

What was it, then, sex by the third date? I\'ve never seen one, you know. Touching doesn\'t count. How can I tell him...? How can I wait...? I\'ve found another self inside, unwilling. He\'s bound to find her, too, but broken.

I have this little yellow card, this little yellow promise. Am I getting too old? Am I too much of a coward? What are those dark circles under their eyes? I thought boys couldn\'t go all night long.

Do you remember your first smell of honeysuckle, in the woods, in July, in barefeet and four years and a pastel jumper? Like that. Stuff your nose in and inhale, sweet and fleeting.

Remember the bee you stepped on, just a moment after? The angry burr in your heel, the hot tears? That, too.

There was this boy, and he said he loved me, but I wasn\'t sure. My face blurred in the bathwater and his appeared instead, and there were our children, strange hybrids. They were ugly, but I knew that was just the me in them.

This boy. That boy. Incapable of love. Not like women, like I, like us. Incapable for loving themselves too much, instead of too little.

Love letters. I keep a box of them underneath of my bed, don\'t you? Sentiment and the clean, dry smell of paper. Let that be my lover, then, and I\'ll only ever need one pillow for my bed.

Description
What of young girls with the first tastes of lukewarm lust in their thighs? No matter that their blisters from softball are possessed of more heat. What bears a breast will one day milk.

What of love letters? Of speaking-seeking gel pens in an assortment of colors with their heads pressed to sheets of loose leaf paper, much like the desperate palms of a 13 year old boy, without quite as much mess?

I wrote some myself, once. I sacrificed quarters to the Grocery Store Novelty Machine Gods so that I might wear a bit of tin and cut-coloured plastic on my ring finger, whose identity was ever changing between the middle and the truth. I kissed what parts of my shoulders and arms my lips could reach, and wondered over the textures of lip on lip.

My tongue, examined carefully in the mirror. Useless article, unable to tie cherry stems in knots, unable to roll, unable to unwrap candy.

What was I supposed to do with it?

Dangerous to kiss a boy. Better to share a pencil, best a pen, scored with his teeth marks and damp with spit. Such intimacy between desks in Algebra, in the humid afternoons with the sounds of the world seeping in through classroom windows. That desk is your world, Algebra the master, the pen the Ultimate Dream.

I\'d share a stick of gum with you. Not chew it first (gross). Break it in half Peel back the sugar dusted silver wrapper, leaving a delicate thumb print on soft spearmint. Sharing, like kindergarten, or marriage.

What was it, then, sex by the third date? I\'ve never seen one, you know. Touching doesn\'t count. How can I tell him...? How can I wait...? I\'ve found another self inside, unwilling. He\'s bound to find her, too, but broken.

I have this little yellow card, this little yellow promise. Am I getting too old? Am I too much of a coward? What are those dark circles under their eyes? I thought boys couldn\'t go all night long.

Do you remember your first smell of honeysuckle, in the woods, in July, in barefeet and four years and a pastel jumper? Like that. Stuff your nose in and inhale, sweet and fleeting.

Remember the bee you stepped on, just a moment after? The angry burr in your heel, the hot tears? That, too.

There was this boy, and he said he loved me, but I wasn\'t sure. My face blurred in the bathwater and his appeared instead, and there were our children, strange hybrids. They were ugly, but I knew that was just the me in them.

This boy. That boy. Incapable of love. Not like women, like I, like us. Incapable for loving themselves too much, instead of too little.

Love letters. I keep a box of them underneath of my bed, don\'t you? Sentiment and the clean, dry smell of paper. Let that be my lover, then, and I\'ll only ever need one pillow for my bed.