f i f t e e n
seeping through the cracks, I'm the poison in your bones
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I'm fifteen when people start to comment. She takes my hand and squeezes it, and we share a secret smile, because now we have what we want. We have something they want.
We're not what they accuse us of. We're not imperfect. We do eat. We're not that. Those sideways glances now—they flit through emerald eyes.
They aren't concerned. They are jealous.
And that's when I know that she was right all those years ago, when she told me I can.
I can. I have.
I'm fifteen when they start to notice that she's good for me. That my time with her makes me better.
YOU ARE READING
Ana
Short StoryShe was everything. The air I breathed, the oxygen in my veins. Everything that kept me alive. She was me. She was.
