It begins with a small impatience.
Something about the light. Or the way it has been warm for three days straight. The consistency of it. The knowing.
So it flutters. A quickening under the skin, beginning. The desire for something more. For something less, perhaps. No matter, as long as it isn’t the same. As long as it’s different to this.
Her mother says she has gypsy blood. Something garnet red and restless, warming her veins. Like the sun setting on her horizon, or the rising of it somewhere else.
There is no place (she’s home).
Chewed up. Spit out. That’s what they say about girls like me. In a place like this.
As if the city has jaws. Great, chomping concrete jaws that bite down on new flesh, and then, disgusted at the freshness, spew it back out. As if the streets are littered with lacerated hearts, with open wounds and cardboard stories.
They say I’m bound for such corners. For coffee cups and copper coins, and no way of getting home. But I know it’s the small towns that kill you. I know who takes bite after bite.
Home is where they feast on girls like me. A place like this just might save me.
~ Alice, Into the After