He was there. Scrolling through his endless supply of Instagram memes. He was dressed head to toe in Adidas, shoulders broad and controlled, forehead pinched deep in thought. My eyes were drawn to his gentle demeanor, as there was something about him that I just couldn't control. His name was Andrew. He had deep brown skin reminiscent of a cocoa-colored coffee table, bright brown eyes that glittered whenever he laughed, and a sly smile.
I still remember the first time we met. He sees the bruises
before I can hide them,
but I pull at my sleeves anyway
because maybe he won't
say anything,
maybe he'll forget them
or ignore them
or...
He touches my hair
and I flinch away.
He smiles
but it's warped
by his pity,
which just makes me
angry
and
pull even farther back.
But he hugs me before I can stop him, tracing the black and purple spots with the curve of his thumb.
It hurts
but he's so gentle
that I don't care when
he asks where they came from.
He sees the tears
before I can hide them.
And for a moment—
I forget about the sadness altogether.
Being an adult— is kind of like driving a car.
It takes a lot more than getting behind the wheel to get
where you need to go.
