By: Savanny Savath, Staff Writer
The first F word he used
on me was not
fuck.
It was
faggot
in a discounted
hotel room
stuffed with two beds
and a family of five.
Today was Christmas,
and my brother presented me a word
I could wear
like the white, fleece jacket
our mother gave me earlier that day.
It didn’t fit quite right—
A family vacation
at the beach
in the middle of winter.
The trail of orange starfish
frozen under the pier,
stars not enough for the sky.
Not enough for me
to be a girl who loves
like the waves love to kiss
the knuckles of the shore,
grainy cusps bleeding back
to the sea.
My brother was always messing up
words like rape for rap—
two words that struck
sharp on my ears, beating down
the canals.
Leaving me…
a shriveled sea star
for my family
to burn later in a bonfire.
But I left the room and waded
for the riptide because
sea stars have no brains and no blood.
