THE THREE LITTLE PIGS AND MY SIXTEEN-YEAR OLD SELF STAND IN A ROOM AND SUBMIT THEMSELVES TO ANALYSIS.
After Margaret Atwood At sixteen, I was a mistress of deception. There was nothing horrifying about the life beneath the mask No petrifying Medusa No gargoyles in these curls. It was just that I didn’t trust anyone With my normalcy. With my laundry, dirty or clean. At sixteen, you decide you don’t trust anyone, and no one trusts you. I hid beneath the cover of what you know best at sixteen. Sex. Make no mistakes- it wasn’t given. Just implied. Deliciously implied, teasingly implied, needlessly and always. It flattered and unsettled in equal measures. I smile coyly. You’re pleased and uncomfortable. You stop asking questions. I was completely exposed Showing nothing at all And I was happy. Each flirtation Like a wall of steel- But a millimeter thick. As we talk And you move forward, piercing the thin steel wall I step back, throwing up millimeter-thick walls of steel in front of me as I go Smiling, throwing up wall, after wall, af
