steven was a boy

with a name like butter

on my wind-chapped lips,

like marbles in the

pit of my juice box stomach,

like heat between thighs

just old enough to

straddle a poorly hung

tire swing over filmy lakes

in august heat




I bled for the first time

at a sleepover

somewhere between the

singe of burnt popcorn and

the nineties television

we played whisper-down-the-lane

as my innocence clung to my thighs


three girls in polyester


all differing shades of pink

thin hair, thin lips, thin minds

stuffed tissues in their

training bras while I

shifted on my pillow seat and

thought of him.



Filed under Uncategorized, Writing

3 responses to “steven

  1. Your expression of sweet nostalgia for A Boy is touching 🙂

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