Don't Be Mean To Boys

He kept hanging around, mimicking me, blowing on my face, his nasty rotten-tooth breath making clouds of dragon smoke as it hit the Minnesota air. Taunting, calling me skinny-minnie; the most insidious of nicknames. Pulling at the strings of my hood with little pom-poms at the end, grabbing at them, saying I had fuzzy balls.

I tried to run away but he chased me. This had been going on since I’d first stepped outside - a dreadful place, due to the freeze - but mandatory. Forced outdoor playtime. Being a kid can suck.

Really, this had been going on since day one. Since he’d laid his beady, little, rat eyes on me, and found himself a suitable target in a rose covered dress. Everywhere I went, he followed, and when my big brown eyes grew wet with frustration from begging to be left alone — he ignored my pleas as if the sound waves of my baby voice died or got carried away by the wind before reaching his ears.

I hopped on the tire swing and tried to find solace in the soothing back and forth …