Monologue #78

The only fighting I was taught was silence. You fight by withholding, I mean with hips that snag on counter-tops, I mean with secrets licked into the ears of whoever is closest, I mean with daring someone to go to sleep without you. Taught by generations of French women who folded their mouths up into tiny red boxes of resentment and built you mad just like them, all the words for hurt deep in the pockets of their aprons.

And then she pushed me down on the purple hot asphalt behind the school. She yelled in my face and her spit caught my ear.

I left warm with sweat and dirtied knees and I loved her like paws on your chest when you get home.

I was never allowed to be brutal and bloody until her hands found my wrists. Now I looked like getting up and getting dressed just to wrap my hands and go again.

As long as I have something worth fighting for.


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