Girl as Décor by Ellie White
The year I woke up fifteen,
boys began to find me. The backyard
at night filled with their hands.
Summer breeze became hot breath
on my neck, a sticky bouquet of cigarettes
and mint. Even the ground prickled
with their evening shadows. My parents
didn’t notice the change, conveniently turned
patio furniture at the sight of dandelion stains
on my nightshirt. My hair grew into a basket
of leaves. My fingernails: tiny shovels. My skin:
clay. In the dark, the boys pressed
themselves into me. Each one desperate
to leave handprints, cast me into a mold
he could bring home to his mother.
At first, it was manageable. A flattened toe,
missing eyebrow, turned wrist. Then,
there was the morning I awoke with no feet.
I had to use most of my stomach to remake
them. Though I relished my new waist, I feared
collapse, filled myself out again with beeswax.
The boys started to play games. They’d take turns
switching my eyes, my ears, my breasts.
Unable to hold my shape, I left for college
a cubist sculpture, wondering if they would
follow. What if I didn’t have a yard anymore?
Would I look better as an ironing board?
A casserole dish? I moved six times before
I realized I wasn’t looking for them,
have never looked for them.
boys began to find me. The backyard
at night filled with their hands.
Summer breeze became hot breath
on my neck, a sticky bouquet of cigarettes
and mint. Even the ground prickled
with their evening shadows. My parents
didn’t notice the change, conveniently turned
patio furniture at the sight of dandelion stains
on my nightshirt. My hair grew into a basket
of leaves. My fingernails: tiny shovels. My skin:
clay. In the dark, the boys pressed
themselves into me. Each one desperate
to leave handprints, cast me into a mold
he could bring home to his mother.
At first, it was manageable. A flattened toe,
missing eyebrow, turned wrist. Then,
there was the morning I awoke with no feet.
I had to use most of my stomach to remake
them. Though I relished my new waist, I feared
collapse, filled myself out again with beeswax.
The boys started to play games. They’d take turns
switching my eyes, my ears, my breasts.
Unable to hold my shape, I left for college
a cubist sculpture, wondering if they would
follow. What if I didn’t have a yard anymore?
Would I look better as an ironing board?
A casserole dish? I moved six times before
I realized I wasn’t looking for them,
have never looked for them.
Ellie White holds an MFA from Old Dominion University. She writes poetry and nonfiction, and is the creator of the online comic strip “Uterus & Ellie.” Her work has appeared in Antiphon Poetry Magazine, Harpur Palate, Tincture and several other journals. Ellie’s chapbook, Requiem for a Doll, was released by ELJ Publications in June 2015. She is a nonfiction editor at Four Ties Literary Review, and the Social Media Editor for Muzzle Magazine. She currently lives near some big rocks and trees outside Charlottesville, Virginia.
