From Ache and Rosettes, a Yearbook

I'm haunted by my childhood. Fascinated by pain. But it's good for a writer to be passionate about something. In middle school. The prom. How you told me to wear something white so my skin would look tan. Show a little cleavage. Never mind the black satin dress with rosettes my mother painstakingly sewed. The pink and white streamers, girls laughing at the tops of their lungs. Somewhere, the smell of stale beer. Somewhere down the hall, the echoing of screams.

It's exquisitely painful to see pictures of yourself from high school. You were so thin and pretty, then. But you hated your body and you hated your self. The constant self consciousness, your reflection in schoolyard windows. The chronic sucking in of your stomach. You're convinced they know, what you so desperately try to hide but can't. They can see it on your face, surely. How scared you are, how lost and alone. So completely unlike them.

Going to football games in the cold. Your breath smoking in the wind and your hands shivering in their gloves. But do you belong there, truly? Just where do you belong? There is something not quite right about you. You know it clearly, walking down the aisle to find a seat. The girls sneering as popcorn crackles underneath your boots. Staring into boys' faces that will show up in your dreams. Like the first time I saw you. I was only fifteen, but I knew. I could hear a voice in my head. Watch out for this one, it said. He'll haunt you forever.