By Coups.
A pair of thighs walk down the street. They wear a snug, navy skirt just above the knee, tights with two small ladders in them. Eyes drive past, locked on thighs, ignoring the road ahead. The thighs stop at the corner and wait. They’re waiting for the bus. It’s a school bus.
She’s your classmate.
She’s 14.
An ass bends over, restocking the drinks fridge. It struggles to keep the door open while shoving bottles to the back. A customer sees the ass and holds the door, enjoying the view, licking their lips. You’re next in line to pay. The ass stands up and thanks the customer.
She’s your neighbour.
She’s 16.
A stomach rushes across the field, dribbling a football. When it slides to score a goal, a sliver of belly shows. Spectators miss the shot, distracted by the skin that holds the uterus. A group nearby jokes that stomachs “just aren’t built like men.”
She’s your flatmate.
She’s 19.
Breasts bounce down the hallway. They’re looking for their manager. At the desks, typing halts, eyes track the breasts from the corners of screens. They’re new to the office. Someone in the break room has already found their Instagram, showing the others.
She’s your coworker.
She’s 22.
A neck lies on a pillow, staring at the ceiling. Two hands grip it, squeezing. The neck’s in pain, but the hands enjoy it, so it stays silent. Red marks form. Bruises, fingerprints. The hands tighten their grip.
She’s your girlfriend.
She’s 23.
A face stares in the mirror, searching. Searching for evidence, proof. That this is a person, not just pieces of flesh. She is tired. She is afraid. She is here, now. She is more than her body parts.
She is you.
She is 24.