The Cutting

In the back floorboard empty Boones Farm bottles, rattled to the rhythm of lust without love. Fourteen and her world was a different backseat, staring at another gray rooftop above. He’d abandoned them so many years ago, it was hard for her to remember his face. Each new boy now was her attempt to find him, but a father’s love was hard to replace. It was an endless stream of the same old thing, though she knew they didn’t have what she’d need. They only drip the same sweat from their foreheads, taking what they want to satisfy their greed. Each night ended with her alone and ashamed, the same tears leaving stains on her pillowcase. Each time the razor blade slid slightly deeper, each memory taking longer to erase.