
[https://fineartamerica.com/featured/tire-swing-darren-greenwood.html]
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
and
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
nightgowns
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.