Eight years old, and I always knew when to duck,
bend my knees just enough to slip under
that invisible line of barbed wire.
But I forgot, I forgot one day
what I was looking for
and that twisted wire, that one thorn
tore up my cheek, over my nose,
and my head whipped backwards.
When we met,
I knew what I was
looking for and I slipped under
your arm. Distracted
by your stupid thrift store button ups
and your memorized Neruda. Distracted, and
just like that,
you whipped me backwards
and I was bleeding.