I know who you are.
In grade school, I came up with the perfect solution to the trouble I experienced with other kids. If I just had a force field about the size and shape of a hula hoop surrounding my body like a cylinder from head to toe nobody could ever, ever touch me.
The black door has bolts Behind it is the red door with levers And the green door with hinges And the aqua door with padlocks I hate the aqua door. The aqua door I know I cannot get through I turn back to my room Inside this place There are no doors There are no […] …
That was your shame, your old, full-grown shame that you handed to me again and again with your deafness and your silence.
I knew better than to tell the story. I knew by then that words had dark and terrible magic.
I loathed the world because nothing made any sense. Nothing.
It was the 1970s in small town Utah, and really, the very bad thing was that no one explained to me that it wasn't my fault.