Anon Yesterday, a boy told me his #life story on a school bus. He said he was born of anger, said that the gaps in his memory would make me want to find the thread, make me want to finger the holes in his shirt until I felt his threadbare. I have a tendency to fall in love with boys who resemble broken dolls. They have weird limbs and jutting rib cages, hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed for years, bodies that make you want to sigh a little deeper just to be able to touch their skin. When he told me that the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen was the way light fell between trees or a soft girl’s legs, I reached for his arm and told him that that was what he was, that even though he was born of an angry childhood and missing parents, black eyes and bruised kneecaps, he, boy made of broken doll body, was as beautiful as the light that filled the gaps in his memory.
