Deb

O god, bloody panties. Her first menses; how could she not tell her mother? What else is she not telling. Her friend haunts me, gun to her temple, so young. Is it there in her too, that dark bloody place? Her diary is in my lap. Open it. Open it. No. But I breach. I draw in ragged breaths and read of dragons and fairies and “I wish I could meet a boy.” I close what can never be closed again.