Chimera Speaks

fifteen

the first time you kiss a girl, you will wonder why there has to be a name for this. why you cannot just love the soft of her mouth and the sharp of her color and the tentative sigh of her hand cupping the taut flesh before your breasts begin without having to re-arrange every label you never thought to struggle with.

she shows you a song and at home, alone, you listen to it and wonder if digital files wear out, and memorize every lyric, as though if you learn it, you will learn her.

boys you have kissed, and quivered over calloused fingers and burgeoning fuzz and her fingers are calloused and her eyes are dark and your knees are weak and there is not better or worse, just different. and bright and new and confusing.

you hold it close to you because it feels right there, and then one day it begins to feel like hiding it. so you whisper honesty across a dim room, and a girl that is not her slides subtly away from you, and her nose folds into little disgusting wrinkles that you could draw right now if you had to, from memory. and then you think, maybe it was a secret, and so it becomes one.

and there are other girls but they are never other girls. and the song doesn’t remind you of her because you play it everywhere, until it is made vague and mundane. and you are a coin with two sides that hides her head in the sand and only ever tells tales.



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    First kiss
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