I Am Not A Cure | Abigail Staub

VAGABOND CITY

The first man to name me “goddess” was twenty-one and drunk on gin. Breath heavy with lust and booze, he told me that most nights he carved poems into the walls trying to write me alive in the room with him, so when the light hit the scrapes just right,  he could catch his breath for a minute. I was just fifteen, all ivory thighs and wild eyes, but still he held my spine between his teeth and spun words off his tongue like thread— they wrapped around me in a throat-crushing tangle, but when my limbs began to struggle, I convinced myself it was some sort of embrace.

One night he called me saying, “Babygirl, you gotta open your window and stare out at that moon. Isn’t it beautiful, baby? Look at the sky holding up that massive thing all on its own. Damn, you’re just like that, you…

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