By Autumn Farrell, Staff Writer, Emerson College
Behind my house in the alley
that smells like dryer sheets and dirt-covered toys,
I lift up my blue shirt for Anthony. He reaches
out two small hands, lays them on my equally small chest.
He says
that’s so sexy
fidgets like little boys do.
I let him squeeze. It hurts the tender
pink skin, leaves red marks he doesn’t mean.
John puts his fingers down my pants
on a park bench, smokes a cigarette in the other
hand. I stare at the sun a little more than I should.
He says
Do you like that?
I nod with dark spots in my vision, hold
his wrist when he tries to move it, holds
his wrist when he tells me I should shave.
I find black lingerie in my mom’s drawers, a one piece
embroidered with flowers and holes
for her nipples. I take it to my room,
try to fill the holes right, wonder why my chest
is still so small. I kneel in front of my mirror
that’s so sexy
pose with my arms above my head,
tell myself I should shave.
In the shower at 2am, I inhale
steam, the smell of dryer sheets and big girl toys, a razor
on the ledge, long hair stuck to the wall.
I lay my hands on my chest, pale skin, red
marks I meant at the time, a tattoo
on one hip, stretch marks on the other.
Do you like that?
I kneel in front of the water,
the fullness of my body, my skin,
a one piece embroidered
with flowers and holes.
Autumn Farrell is a short, tea-loving Latina who hails from the poetry, theater, and dance scene in Phoenix, Arizona. She has a stash of horrible smelling herbs in her underwear drawer and is probably the biggest fan of ironic swag rap you will ever meet. If she can talk to you about astrology she will love you (she's a Gemini). Before she dies she wants to be a famous pole dancer.
Behind my house in the alley
that smells like dryer sheets and dirt-covered toys,
I lift up my blue shirt for Anthony. He reaches
out two small hands, lays them on my equally small chest.
He says
that’s so sexy
fidgets like little boys do.
I let him squeeze. It hurts the tender
pink skin, leaves red marks he doesn’t mean.
John puts his fingers down my pants
on a park bench, smokes a cigarette in the other
hand. I stare at the sun a little more than I should.
He says
Do you like that?
I nod with dark spots in my vision, hold
his wrist when he tries to move it, holds
his wrist when he tells me I should shave.
I find black lingerie in my mom’s drawers, a one piece
embroidered with flowers and holes
for her nipples. I take it to my room,
try to fill the holes right, wonder why my chest
is still so small. I kneel in front of my mirror
that’s so sexy
pose with my arms above my head,
tell myself I should shave.
In the shower at 2am, I inhale
steam, the smell of dryer sheets and big girl toys, a razor
on the ledge, long hair stuck to the wall.
I lay my hands on my chest, pale skin, red
marks I meant at the time, a tattoo
on one hip, stretch marks on the other.
Do you like that?
I kneel in front of the water,
the fullness of my body, my skin,
a one piece embroidered
with flowers and holes.
Autumn Farrell is a short, tea-loving Latina who hails from the poetry, theater, and dance scene in Phoenix, Arizona. She has a stash of horrible smelling herbs in her underwear drawer and is probably the biggest fan of ironic swag rap you will ever meet. If she can talk to you about astrology she will love you (she's a Gemini). Before she dies she wants to be a famous pole dancer.