In the Month of May

He stands over her tiny frame with the gravel slipping through his loose fists. He stands and watches, her small and fragile bones curled in on themselves.

She could curl into a ball faster than you could blink. She saw those sticks and stones being taken into those harsh hands and turned in on herself, her face pressing against the ripped skin of her knees, breathing deep and squeezing her eyes shut tight. She has had stones embedded between her bones before; sticks pushed through the spaces where the joints meet and ribs fail to entertwine.

He watches now, as each tiny pebble drops to the cold ground in front of her face. Her eyes are closed, yet she sees his shadow over her, blocking the sun from warming her skin.
As each tiny pebble falls, his eyes burn holes through the stretched skin over her brittle bones. With each second, the familiar tune repeats itself in her mind. The words are just behind her chapped lips, pressing and straining against the unyielding barrier of rows of teeth.

He kneels beside her, discarding the pebbles, bringing a hand to her shoulder. His eyes become softer as the faintest appearance of tears glaze his irises. She raises her face to his, eyes wide and untrusting. He slides his hand over her skin from shoulder to cheek, bringing his face closer to her pressed lips.

The melody breaks through those barring teeth, glinting and gleaming in the falling sun. Her lips curl back as he comes closer, and her tongue lashes the words into the soft flesh of his face.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

And as he falls from the backlash, she thinks to herself,
What a filthy fucking lie.