Photo by Tara Glaser on Unsplash
by Mary-Louise McGuinness
They are the girls that can’t sit still. The girls relegated to sit knees upward on the too-squat benches that front permanently stored climbing ropes. They are the girls that curl golden spirals of layers-soft varnish with ragged nails ripe for trimming, the satisfaction of the burrow and push drowning out the blanket of monotonous voices stifling the room—the feigned attention stillness that makes them dizzy and the moist haze from jam-packed pubescent flesh smothering them, warming their breath to steam.
They are the girls who do not like to cause damage, whose guilty realisation leads them to be less destructive, to instead sit on their hands, to relish the hurt of a red gouge being imprinted by the sharp edge of wood, a numb trough fenced by a firm resistance of bloodless skin and a feeling of power they can trace with an ungloved finger on the bus ride home.
They are the girls who grind their teeth into the jelly softness of their cheeks to save speaking, that relish the iron tang of blood in their spit and bite their tongues until purple-red bumps sting delicious when they eat.
They are the girls that create their own tension, that squeeze pale thighs exposed by rigid A-line skirts into the wood before lifting them quickly, their skin unzipping sharp like Velcro from the pine now tacky with sugary varnish and sweat until the relief of final prayers pulses down from the stage and they can escape quickly and without reprimand.
Marie-Louise McGuinness has work published in numerous literary journals including Banshee, Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review and Splonk. She writes from a sensory perspective.
