I never did understand boys. Their honest bare legs in the summer, tense like bowstrings, covered in light fuzz like they were still children, would always be. Their eyes chrome and uneven in the sun, flitting from one target to the next; careless.
Their bodies flat but with edges quick to sharpen; the jutty bump on their neck making them birdlike, predatory, and the veins on their hands running too close to the surface. Everything that was weak in them stuck out of their bodies as if on offer for attack. They were so compact and still so vulnerable. Maybe that is why I found them so scary.
And yet, I felt a likeness... The dirty fingernails from digging ditches in the sandbox, wondrous of the damp and cool layer that hid beneath the delicate grains exposed to the sun, burying our hands deep into it to revel in the sensation. Knees scratched and forever scarred by branches... But they never liked me for it; no matter how many freckles I grew on my arms, no matter how sticky I got running through the woods, no matter how hard or fast I could do things. And I could never understand why.
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