He said it was my fault.
What the hell was I doing, looking at him that way.
With those eyes.
What did I expect.
Oh, didn’t you know,
This sort of thing is human nature.
Uncontrollable—a growl in the stomach or saliva on the lips.
The bloody burn of red cheeks.
What’s a starving man to do?
I have my grandmother’s eyes. People have said they are beautiful.
There is picture of her in my bedroom but it’s in a drawer now.
Her legs are stretched long,
She’s sunbathing and smiling and it’s 1957,
And when I look at it I forget what cold feels like.
The sun had gone even before he arrived but the heat just couldn’t let me go.
So it stayed close, clung to my thighs and the crooks in my elbows
As he spoke, accusing my yellow hair, condemning the arch in my lips,
Making my eyes criminal.
Kayleigh Hughes is an editor, freelance writer, and overthinker. Kayleigh is the film editor at Loser City and contributor to Pitchfork, Vox, The Establishment, Bustle, Austin-American Statesman, Ovrld and more. Talk to her about literally anything–she doesn’t have that many friends–on twitter or via email.