These boys, they try to play the rules,
pulling strings of toy wind ups. Try to forget. These boys, they try to dance like the men, try to push out their chests. Try to forget. There she sat, at attention for the world’s viewing, sixteen years of age. Like a wind-up toy awaiting play time, she looked at the boys with apprehension for she knew and deeply understood their affections for her—their coveted imaginations dancing behind eyelids. She was the life of the party, stories circulating this way and that as if she had some dark secret hidden away inside her—like a treasure. She resembled other girls, tight curls, lips painted in ravishing reds, materials that hugged her body just so that they mimicked the touch of love she so desired. The girl found an opening that she could force herself through, standing, waiting for her crowd’s admiration, approval that never quite filled the void within her own heart. And each night she found pleasure in a man who she thought she knew—a man who was much like the others—a figure of momentary comfort, fleeting penetration.
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