Her body is an open wound. Which is to say that there is a boy with hunger in his eyes, in the growl of his teeth, who loves the safe ambiguity of the dark, whose hands hijack everything in their path, like a forest fire. Which is to say that it bleeds when it bleeds, and it bleeds when it should heal. Which is to say it hurts to hold and it hurts not to. Which is to say she has to stay in motion. Which is to say that when the moon hangs over the clouds like a lover she cannot stop to look. Which is to say her body rejects the light, like a shadow, violently. Which is to say she cannot remember her father’s face, only remember the low murmur of his voice, strong and self-sustaining, always seeming to echo back at itself. Which is to say she can’t be sure about anything. Which is to say that you would look at her with pity, tight fists and open eyes. Which is to say if you held your hands out to her, she would bite down until the blood stained her tongue like cold iron. Which is to say her body loves what it fears. Which is to say she doesn’t cry anymore for what she lost.
Naana Eyikuma Hutchful(they/them) is a Ghanaian writer with work appearing in Pithead Chapel, Bending Genres, Gone Lawn, Maudlin House and elsewhere.
They like sunrises, baja blasts, and Wong Kar Wai films.
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