By Dan Skinner
I recall the first time I saw you. We’d moved into the upstairs flat on the quiet brick street in the south of the city. I’d been afraid to move; I’d grown accustomed to my old home, the farm fields where I could hide within myself under the wide open skies and rolling flat lands. There I felt safe with my secrets; there I felt secure that my oddness was unseen. With the move I thought for certain I’d be forced deeper into myself to protect myself. And then I saw you… from the window of my bedroom, in my new home in a strange city.
I was fourteen, body rapidly changing as it does for a boy who has entered his teens. I’d had my growth spurt and stood with its awkwardness at five foot nine inches. It brought the newness of hair in…
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