The girl who walks with the dagger is seen by a million eyes. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t even slow. Miles away, gazers on rocks count the eyes, but this girl does not have the time for peace.
These eyes are mine.
When she collapses in the alleyway, I can’t scream for help. My moon casts a glow over her body, and this is all I can do for her. I’m only the space between breaths; I have no air of my own. Minutes ago, she held a knife up to someone’s neck. Minutes ago, she fled. She left the smallest cut to the person’s neck—but first blood always leaves the darkest stains on one’s memory, no matter its amount.
She gets back up. The dagger shifts in her hoodie pocket, the edge of its blade catching the light like one of my stars. There is a tear in her jeans. Her knee is shining, blood welling from the fall. When she walks, it’s more of a s