|||
someone tied a pink ribbon
to the barrel of a rifle.
called it peace.
we clapped.
//
at recess, we drew hopscotch grids
in the ash.
played between the cratered bones
of the library.
one-two-three,
missiles overhead,
four-five-six,
don’t step on the tooth.
//
Lina’s braids caught fire.
we all smelled it.
burnt hair and scalp.
she kept saying
“it’s fine it’s fine”
until her lips peeled.
//
there was a boy—
Adil.
he had one green shoe,
one brown.
he disappeared after the tanks came
and we never asked.
no one wants to be the girl
who asks.
//
our bodies bloomed
at the same time
the sirens did.
men watched us
from windows like hunters.
someone said
we should start slouching.
so we did.
//
no more music.
no more soccer.
no more sleepovers.
just
news,
bloodbags,
and counting which girls
bled from bombs
and which from between
their legs.
//
i remember
peeling an orange
while my sister screamed
in the next room.
shells were falling.
her mouth was full of glass.
i was hungry.
i kept peeling.
//
mother taught us
how to fold bedsheets
so they could also be
shrouds.
//
we kissed each other
at night.
not out of want.
out of need—
to feel something
that wasn’t the dull slap
of grief.
//
our dolls lost their heads.
our schoolbags smelled
like formaldehyde.
one girl wore her father’s dog tags
like a necklace.
we all wanted one.
//
by thirteen,
we knew how to say “please”
in three languages.
and “don’t”
and “stop”
and “he’s just a girl, leave her.”
//
we do not tell these stories.
we wear them.
in our knees,
our teeth,
the way we flinch
when fireworks go off.
//
someone says,
“weren’t you too young?”
and i say,
there’s no such thing.
