It Isn’t Right To Wish Pain On

You Think My First Instinct Is To Protect You. Because You're Small, Or A Girl, Or A Stiff. But You're Wrong." He Leans His Face Close To Mine And Wraps His Fingers Around My Chin. His Hand Smells Like Metal. When Was The Last Time He Held A Gun, Or A Knife? My Skin Tingles At The Point Of Contact, Like He's Transmitting Electricity Through His Skin. "my First Instinct Is To Push You Until You Break, Just To See How Hard I Have To Press." He Says, His Fingers Squeezing At The Word Break. My Body Tenses At The Edge In His Voice, So I Am Coiled As Tight As A Spring, And I Forget To Breathe.

His Fingers Leave Streaks Of Cold On My Skin, Invisible To The Eye, And I Think About Wrapping His Shirt Around My Fist And Pulling Him In To Kiss Me; I Think About Pressing Myself Against Him, But I Can't, Because All Our Secrets Would Keep A Space Between Us.

I Feel The Urge, Familiar Now, To Wrench Myself From My Body And Speak Directly Into Her Mind. It Is The Same Urge, I Realize, That Makes Me Want To Kiss Her Every Time I See Her, Because Even A Sliver Of Distance Between Us Is Infuriating. Our Fingers, Loosely Woven A Moment Ago, Now Clutch Together, Her Palm Tacky With Moisture, Mine Rough In Places Where I Have Grabbed Too Many Handles On Too Many Moving Trains. Now She Looks Pale And Small, But Her Eyes Make Me Think Of Wide-open Skies That I Have Never Actually Seen, Only Dreamed Of.

Why Do You Say Vague Things If You Don't Want To Be Asked About Them?

Don't You Dare Try To Apologize." His Voice Shakes. "this Is Not Something You Can Bandage With A Word Or Two And Some Hugging, Or Something.