My nickname, scrawled on the picture of a naked woman on her knees. The shame. Little things. It’s the chubby fourth grade boy who hollered “fat four eyes”.
A taxidermist, he fills my body With stiffening thoughts To keep me from running away.
Every time he left, I would feel all of my muscles shake out of a tense grip, as if I’d been holding on to the edge of a cliff to
you almost forgot that after it happens, friends abandon you all at once without a word everyone at the same time is too busy or not equipped or dealing with
my step mother said she’d feel nothing if she were raped her daughters turned away from her my mother said something terrible happened to her but when we
he found me there summer seven, undressing into a sequined slip from ‘30; left me big red bites like the bees outside.
I was not the target I was collateral damage and still my heart beats extra as I write this story
Hey, new girl. You do yoga, right? We oughta have a staff art class. Get you to model naked. Shove an apple in your mouth Abigail Kirby Conklin lives
Covered completely and yet I felt naked, filthy with the grime of adolescent appraisal… If I screamed would you hear me—have you been listening at all?
I’ve contorted my name Into basic syllables Cut off my rolling r Like demolition to mountain tops To suit your tongue …
I have procrastinated about writing this to you for 45 years. Even now, my heart is pounding and my foot is tapping. I am angry at you and I’m angry
We speak of this over decaf coffee, over countless afternoons as the sunlight simmers, as the shadows stretch slowly like a cat across the carpet…