When I was a kid I discovered sex was about how far a boy could throw a felled tree, how long two people could stare at each other instead of rain, how hard it is to remove mud from hair and handprints from thighs. Because the first penis I ever saw belonged to a boy who used knives as language, because that boy was my brother, because the boy was my brother whose words were serrated, because he lived beneath me, his wrists pulsing into the ceiling, listening for my heart to cease being a haven, I began pressing my lips against any boy’s body who was strong enough to throw me. I was convinced that breasts were missiles, exploding boys until their gestures transformed love to pain before sex, pain with sex, sex of threat and secret. Because I discovered the stains of sex live under the skin’s pores, in the pegs of teeth and tastebuds, because I learned early that girls who stroked cigarettes were afraid and lonely, because whiskey burning my tonsils made me remember my brother’s saliva would always coat my throat, I don’t remember the first boy I gave away a kiss to, the first boy I slammed against my parent’s kitchen door, or the first boy who slammed me against the rough edges of a tree. I don’t remember when I first allowed a boy to treat me like a dagger, or the first time I discovered that crying in the rain underneath a boy you don’t love or won’t remember isn’t the fastest route to god, to heaven or the torments of truth.