Girls in Vignettes

One stayed. He held me even when night left and sunlight spilled into the room. My flesh isn’t enough for him and I am glad. I want my voice to press into him, I want to know that I’m heard. For years I’ve grown swollen and here he is, lancet in hand. Maybe all that rotten pus is ready to come bursting out, squeezing out the remnants of my past. But each time he draws near, his breath warms my cold shoulder and tears run down my flushed, red cheeks. I breathe in my heavy air, so dense I think my lungs might rupture.

Words by Alex Reaves

Client: ILY Magazine