We are not girls. At least, we don’t think we are. Girls do not do what we do. We set our knife to the side, where it lies angry and glittering, waiting for us to pick it up again. We shed our skin and find scales, oily and hard and slick. We shed answers and find questions. We lie in the tide and let the waves wash over us. It feels good, this small taste of home we can’t imagine returning to. This is how we feed summer. But the water is cold. It is endless. It reminds us as much of our father as of our mother. The world rushes through us. We are peaceful. We are as deep as black as space. Staring up at the stars, we see only our own image reflected back at us.
We are infinite and we are ravenous.