In the summertime we ate hot dogs on the boardwalk, laughed until ice cream came out our nose, waited for mom to die in her bed, all wrapped up in fear.
They met at summer camp, scratched their secrets into wooden bed frames and decided that boys tasted like gold.
It didn’t take me long to decide that the right one was just a lie mothers told their daughters to protect them.
We spent most of that summer at the beach, tossing our bodies through harsh waves and beaten sand.
We were what kept them alive.
We spent Saturdays eating tuna sandwiches on a blue picnic table.
I used to think people were glamorous. I used to notice their silver brooches, woolen pea coats, and the tiny moles above their lips.
“Better not tell your momma,” she yelled. I could do nothing but shake my head.
They knew we were hungry, threw us the crusts of their pizza like we were dogs. Funny thing was that we ate it off the floor, our hands masked, tied to the refrigerator door.