my rewrite of the vignette sire in the house of mango street or smth like that __________________________ Sire. I don’t remember when I first noticed him looking at me. An older boy, beautiful and jagged as they’d call him, paying attention to me? But I knew he was looking, every time I walked past the park where he and his friends hung. His friends and Shade and his eyes so dark and black like midnight that it seemed to pierce through my soul, devouring me whole. They were the sky without stars, swallowing the last trace of light, and I could never bring myself to meet them. I pretended not to notice instead. I think I might be addicted to how he looks at me. “I like your braids,” he tells me one day, voice deep and soulful but rough and raspy, the only time he spoke to me. I remember how his gaze burned into my skin. I hate his eyes when he’s looking at me with his friends and I can’t look up and my steps quicken and I want to get away but I don’t want to either. I love his eyes when he’s looking at me sometimes his attention is at something else so I can quickly glance at him, just for a second. They’re stolen, wrongfully stolen memories in my heart. I could only nod softly and scurry away, cheeks rosy red. I started braiding my hair more intricately after that. __ He has a new girl on his lap every week. They never last long, even if he would look at them so lovingly, his calloused fingers covering theirs. This week is a girl with silky chocolate curls, wild and free that makes my braids look ugly and plain. I should’ve known better than to treasure a passing phrase, said so softly without actual meaning. I saw him kiss her this afternoon. Sire, how did you hold her? Was it like this? Like this?
