not like the other girls

trigger warning: abuse

This is an entry for the FEMFLASH 2013 writing competition from Mookychick Online. Enter now.

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‘You’re not like the other girls.’

What you feel at first is victory. You flush hot with pride. Maybe he wears steel-toe boots and talks big about politics and when you breathe in the scent of his skin you get dizzy.

He understands you. You’re outsiders, Bonnie and Clyde. He hates girls who cake on makeup because it looks artificial, so you trade a red lip for Chapstick, though he never asked you to.

He talks about his ex, a crazy bitch who was so insecure, who was weird about him touching her stomach and thighs, who’d only let him sleep with her now and then. But you’re not like that. You’ll do anything he wants, whenever he wants. You teach yourself to like the things he likes. You pretend to like the things you can’t.

His friends will wish they had girlfriends like you. You throw back tequila shots with them, play video games with them. You haven’t seen your own friends in weeks, but boys are less drama anyway.

Girls told you he was trouble, but that was before you. Besides, why should you listen to those bitches? You’re not like them. You’re not like the other girls.

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revolutions can be tender

This is an entry for the FEMFLASH 2013 writing competition from Mookychick Online. Enter now.

It’s us, half-drunk on the icy air. The police station car park is deserted. I bend to tug a loose brick from the wall.

‘Oh my God,’ she says. I press a finger to my lips. We look at each other. Her eyes widen, anticipation lighting her up like merry dancers in the sky. She nods once.

Weighing the brick in my hand, I count to three before I lob it at the window of the nearest police car.

There’s the smash of the glass and the alarm rings out. No-one’s coming after us yet but we run, high heels clacking on the pavement, until we get to the play park, gasping and laughing and collapsing into each other.

And then we’re still, just breathing, and neither one of us is pulling away.

So I do it, and when our lips meet, her hands slide down my waist, fingertips pressing into my hips.

I feel a thousand riots inside me. I feel the centuries we’ve fought with our words and fists. I feel the world shifting. It’s worth an eternity of struggle.

It’s us, with our love and our rage, skin aglow from the orange streetlights, and it feels as though we’ve won.

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