milestones

Even before I was old enough to carry a plastic card granting me the right to speed out of control, I knew that proof of identification was just an illusion. Identity isn't easily ushered in by a laminated thumbnail photograph. I didn't want to grow up anyway. Another day. Another opportunity to remind me that fresh blood in the mouth tastes like the smell of coins held for too long in the hand. A hot tinny disaster burning the back of the throat. The threat of your offending charms.

And when I transferred schools, I didn't tell anyone the truth. Because I couldn't say I was afraid that you would kill me. That the declarative rolled off your tongue like a request for more french fries. The Dean said all sophomores have boy troubles. So I shook my head while he fired accusations at me about skipping gym -- about smoking pot behind the portables with the bad kids. He didn't need to know that I couldn't allow anyone to see me naked -- that I just wanted to be sent away.

You were there at my new school. Leering at me from the eyes of every boy in homeroom, in wood shop, the hallways. I kissed them all. One after another until they became the same person. Faceless bodies with hands against my back. Exorcising demons with silent lips in the back of the library next to stories bound like books about King Tereus, of Caliban, and Helen.