cinnamon thighs and daddy boys • poetry

year 10

we were in tenth grade now. we still weren't friends enough to talk. maybe acquaintance enough. but the teasing remarks and racist jokes had stopped. and the paint on my side of the green bench had begun to wear away.

it changed when mama put too much spice in your chicken curry that day. i saw your lips twist and prune and your cheeks puff in and out. you tried sipping at your juice box but it was empty, because you liked drinking your juice before the meal. i offered you mine.

"i'm not taking that. it has your paki germs on it." i sighed. it was going so well.

"suit yourself." i got up.

"wait." he grabbed the juice box out of my hands and placed the straw in his mouth, sucking till his face turned redder than the spices mama had used.

we ate in silence after that.

up until we got up to leave.

"i'm sorry." he said. it barely broke the silence. it was like a needle pushing through the wall of animosity between us and threading our hearts together.

slowly. stitch by stitch.