He covered the expenses. Held the small of my back.
They gave me ginger ale and crackers. I didn’t say

I felt woozy. Whimpering and dry heaving
on the bathroom floor, I called his name and he came.

Dragged myself up. I never liked his mother
because she never liked me. Afraid of the damage

when the damage leans over. I never liked his mother
but that night I saw a picture of her in a white sweater,

young and pregnant with his older brother.
I started wearing a white sweater. We didn’t tell

our mothers. He had an old car that kept breaking down
and he left it running while he filled the tank. It scared me.

He would drive me anywhere. When my body was a cup
tipped over. Then I hated him. When he reached

for the small under my sweater, I shrieked, go, get out
you monster you dull slop you infinite problem.

Can’t fit the holes back in. They keep leaking through the cracks.

ALEXANDRIA HALL is a poet, musician, and educator from Vermont. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from NYU. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Narrative Magazine, The Bennington Review, BOAAT, and Memorious among others. She lives in Baltimore, MD. Visit her website: