by Cove J. R., 16
stories are stitched into the walls of this still house, like illustrations that come to life. girlhood is woven into the fabric and plaster, embedded in photos and videos. videos of me racing through the hiccupping sprinkler, the summer sun like a soothing balm on my skin, my feet pounding off the brick, my tiny body going higher and higher in the breeze, tangling in the air with wild braids hanging loose trailing behind me, legs together as the world plays out upside down. stills of me sandwiched between dolls, pampered with curly, manicured hair and thin legs, teddy bears and split picture books, paper erupting like a river of lava from the broken seams. don’t step on the playground rubber, leap towards the monkey bars. snapshots of arms stained with popsicle juice and Crayola magic markers, minutes spent running through the sand, rainbow skirts flying as we chase each other in games of tag. we played too long, night bleeding across the heavy sky, fog rolling in like billows of smoke. photos of toothless grins, freckles like stars strung across a golden sky. but the camera doesn’t show our sparkling, squinted eyes from laughing at words we aren’t allowed to say, the thoughts that fly like witches through our minds, or our bruised skin from falling over and over and over. cradled in my palms are the stories we whispered with Lip Smacked lips, the moments our eyes were too bright from smiling, the fires from our warm laughter, and the thunder of our feet as they raced across the asphalt. But like turning the last page of a book, our story has ended. We can’t stay there forever. I can’t thread your fingers with mine, the final page has been written.
San Francisco, California
Bridge Ink 