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M y B a b y ’s S c a r s VICTORIA GRIFFIN

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he has scars all over her body. I ask her where they came from. She won’t tell me. I run my finger along a scar snaking up her leg, from the outside of her knee up her thigh, all the way to her hip. She pushes my hand away, and I place it in the small of her back, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her toward me. I kiss her lips. They are like two soft, pink scars. We’re sitting on the hood of my Camaro in the parking lot of my apartment complex, waiting for the streetlights to come on. My baby’s red hair is so light it’s almost pink, but it looks muddy brown in

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the waning light. I don’t like that. It makes her look sad. “Tell me where your scars came from.” She doesn’t answer. I put a finger beneath her chin and draw her lips to mine. She feels so good. I try to be gentle, but the thought of her body, so small and fragile, makes me want her more. I press my tongue into her mouth, feeling the smooth sharpness of her teeth, and my hand is on the back of her neck, thin like dry pasta. “Baby—” I pull myself away just enough to speak, sucking her lower lip between words. “Baby, tell me you want me.”

Profile for Apeiron Review

Apeiron Review | Issue 9  

Poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and photography originally published in summer 2015 The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based...

Apeiron Review | Issue 9  

Poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and photography originally published in summer 2015 The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based...