XOXO

Ten Years Old. Before even walking into the store, I am hit by the scent of Abercrombie & Fitch “Fierce” wafting into the mall. My fifth-grade mind had learned to associate this smell with attractive men shirtless on the beach, and preppy clothing galore. The smell of cardamom and citrus becomes even more pungent as I enter, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and taking in the upbeat pop music. It’s the definition of sensory overload. Before the obnoxiously attractive guy at the door

you did not make it quick. 

There was no knife to scrape my bones, 

—no knife to puncture my flesh,

It was bruises, it was blue, it was black,

It was ugly. 

My wounds sank deep, pinning me in my plot 

They twisted my insides, turned my stomach to stone.

jagged rock jutting from flesh,

Not marble—nor onyx, but coarse, unsightly grey.

The crudeness, the cruelty of my body hidden.

For I am murdered!—yet you

Redheads, of course, are not like other girls. In literature (and just maybe in life), red hair is an encoded promise to deliver the heroine from standard girlhood; it guarantees a life worth telling, implying that most girls’ are not. Redheaded heroines are witty, undaunted, independent, and bold, qualified for narrative-worthy lives which “other girls” can’t access. She is the one whom the billionaire will adopt (Little Orphan Annie) or whose estranged parents will reunite after she meets

The memory of writing my first ever short story is clearly etched in my mind. I remember the setting (an elementary school), the characters (a class of third graders) and the conflict (a radioactive lizard, loose in the classroom). I also remember that all of the characters in that first story, and in my next dozen, were all white. 

I have been writing stories for more than a decade, but I have only just begun, slowly, to dare to think of myself as a writer (the title feels elusive,