Our desert-night camouflage pattern may bring back memories of the flak you donned in Bagdad.
I remember when they told us to get off the plane, though I have tried to forget it because you said it was not a story.
As a team of three, they have no choice but to help you catch the boys because even they know it is not safe for girls to be alone with a Schwarzen Mann.
You make of him a mouthful, yet you can taste his unease, taste his cold feet.
I told myself I accepted his gala invite because I wanted to see what else they could get away with.
There’s a comfort to our clinging, to the familiarity of togetherness, where the pain is predictable and the pleasure enough.
The girl takes another step across the ice. She is bold. She is thirteen. She doesn’t care if things break.