VERECUNDIA |
You don’t know how to write what happened without a shaking hand— how much you didn’t want it: his hands tightening on your hips, the cigarettes on his breath as he moved toward you and you leaned away and he curled closer, tongue thrusting into your mouth, through your teeth, trying to take you into him full body from where you lay in the foxtails, alone after the start-of-summer bonfire. Distant thunder, scent of mildew, raindrops pearling the tallgrass. The smoke on his breath, the cicadas’ steady screaming. Croaking frogs. That hand. Leaves dervishing in the breeze. That pressure you didn’t want to want, the way it felt. Truck careening down the highway. Sway of grass. You didn’t want it. Pulsing cricketcall. Please, you said. I don’t want it. You didn’t want it. Didn’t want your breath to turn to windstorm, his cigarette lips scalding your neck. Didn’t ask for it. That. |