chucking rocks at the wasps' nest, their gathered hum then sudden sting at the nape of my neck. Oh, how I paid— still pay—for the recklessness of boys. Little Bretts. Little Jeffs. Little knives to my breast. How lucky they were to never be held down, to never see their voices crawl the air like fire! How desperately I yearned to be them, to storm the halls in macho gospel: matching blue jackets, blood-filled posture and made-you-flinch. How different would I be, how much bigger, if I had been given room enough to be a country's golden terror? |
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