Twice
Twice
in my life
I
have been in shock
and
carried myself home.
The
first after a collision
on
a back road in Guatemala—
the
mirror in the bathroom
held
the familiar blue of tiles,
my
eyes, my shirt; the stain
dried
brown over my left breast;
the
blood on my arms
not
my
own.
The
second came
after
she told me
what
he did
to
the red-haired girl.
We
sat on the bed cross-legged, empty
tea
mugs bracing open
the
arrowhead space
between
our thighs and calves.
“There's
something I need
to
tell you,” she grabbed my hand,
pressed
it to her sternum—
our
heartbeats, suddenly wild, collided
at
the crux of my elbow,
“it's
about your ex.”
I
believed her
account,
passed down
from
the girl who lived
it
only
months before.
the
blood
not
my
own.
*This piece has previously appeared in Issue 2 of Broad! Magazine
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