He is thirty-five centimetres taller
than I am. I want to love and fly,
I tell him, when we are naked
for the first time. (He is the first boy
to see me naked). Sunday afternoon
plays like a reel of film
in my mind; in every frame
there is some part of my body –
the narrow of my waist parted mouth skin indented
with the waistband of my skirt the silhouette of my breast
at dusk, crushed against the palm of his hand –
that I watch, and rewind, and watch again. I am never
watching him. (I am nine months older than he is.)
We are at a party, and he isn’t even
funny at all. I am the real clown teetering on stilts
laughing at him with fat red lips until the room tilts
right way up again. I notice he can be mean,
sometimes. I think I like the ideas
of people better than people,
he tells me later when we are alone.
(Is that so bad?) We are watching films
about people who are in love.
I am not watching the black and white
people on the screen. I am watching them
kiss make love in his eyes. (I am still uncertain
how love should be defined, a childhood dilemma
of mine that I ponder over now, at nineteen: am I in love?)
I wonder what it would be like to be self-assured
like him, so unafraid to claim right to that space
we all occupy. I wonder if he knows just how small
I feel underneath him, and I wonder
if he is merely claiming me
for the purpose of exercising his dick
in a pretty idea – it is a possibility. I pick
at the blisters on my heels, and he asks me what I am doing.
I am what he does when he no longer feels placed
at the world’s centre, but upon its sidelines.
He emerges from between my thighs,
mouths the word, “gross” – I gasp –
“I’m kidding,” he says. “You’re alright.” (I feel
naive, confusing physical intimacy for love.)
One night, just days after he and I have said goodbye,
I trip on a walk through the suburbs. My raw skin
burns in several places. I stand in the bathroom,
underneath the yellow light. Reluctantly, I turn
toward the mirror. This is a different kind of naked,
standing in a pile of my dust-stained clothes.
I place one finger on the puckered white flesh
of my thigh, and trace the curve of my belly,
sucking in my breath. My sister is running down the stairs,
calling to ask where the Band-Aids are kept.
She pokes her head in the doorway,
and I lift up the palm of my hand. “Hang on,” she says.
Suddenly, I am crying like I am nine. “I am unlovable,”
I blurt, through tears, hot and wet. “Nonsense,” she says.
Then I watch, in silence, as she trims
the torn skin off my palm
with a pair of nail-clippers,
tilting my hand gently,
apologising if it hurts.
