When I looked at those photographs, I sometimes wondered if all five of us had been born pre-fabricated, in paper grocery bags. We were all clean and articulate, even in our squabbling. We hated naps and we broke buttons, bruised knee bones, penned letters from invisible fingertips, fell asleep in warm bathtubs. Do you remember? The grass was itchy mid-July.
Later we would burn ourselves with cigarettes at parties and dance on rooftops. Our eyes would change colours with the eye-rolls and attention we got. When we kissed boys it was like burlesque, all ostentatious, as though we’d bite off their tongues.
They’ve all become so tough and able now. I try to make my features point inwards as though I’m suspicious of my own cheekbones, which should protect me from affection even though I spend countless hours asking for it. It doesn’t work. I still look like open windows. My hands are so little that bigger hands fall out of them. When I wake up in the night, my shouting doesn’t sound like anything.
