This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2020 Spring Print Edition.
Illustration by Gisela Levy
I have nothing to say to him. This is a boy and his hair is
quicksand. I shed the prom dress like a last glass cocoon
and I sweat pure glitter but he can’t even see it.
No one here still wears corduroy or dreams about their teeth
falling out. So far, the only side effects have been extra
bike bells, chickadees, and the girl next door taking diligent notes.
She highlights my collarbones, shy moon on our shoulders,
And the boy tastes like warm, that’s all. He smells like 11 pm,
Shitty car, the most mundane apocalypse this street has ever seen.
Losing my virginity is bigger than God’s mouth. Not a secret:
I don’t actually have genitals. He asks if it’s really my first time.
I’m so good at this. I answer, virginity is something you scoop
with a fishing net, something you catch and eat for dinner later,
picking flesh apart with claw and metal until you’re full again.