He is white and red and I want to eat him. I lick my lips, there is nothing stopping me. Nothing. But then I think of his girl, back at home, and the hunger vanishes. I plop my tongue back in my mouth, and swallow my craving. I don’t need him anyway.
When I was thirteen I knew I needed boys. It was their arms, strong and meaty, that could wrap around my shoulders and pull me closer. I like to bite. I like their skin. Boys to me at thirteen were these pieces of gum I’d yet to chew.
Thirteen is when Mother left and Father wept. I didn’t cry. I never really liked Mother anyway. She was always snapping off vodka bottle tops with her yellow teeth. When she came to kiss me goodnight on full moons, she filled my cheek with cigarette smoke. So I rubbed my Fathers back and told him we didn’t need her, cause we didn’t. Father drank himself silly but it was okay cause I cooked thanksgiving dinner that year.
I sat alone at the table.
Thirteen is when I tried my first boy. It was fleshy, and wonderful, and a little messy. I loved it. I ran my fingers through his soft hair and he said my green eyes looked like his sisters. Afterwards I collected pennies off the street and he fell into the night behind me.

Tomorrow is my birthday, a full moon bleeding pearls. Father is giving me a pearl necklace. I'll make myself a cake. Father won’t make it to the table- he’ll probably pass out on our faded couch so I'll make the cake for one.
The phone rings and I reach over the knives and pins to get it.
“Jane?” The voice on the other end is cracked and crooked like a broken bone.
“Yes?” I don’t care who is calling unless it’s a boy.
“You’re sixteen tomorrow.” The voice isn’t a broken bone anymore. It’s a clear window that I'm not in mood to look out.
“What’s it to you?” I lick my lips. Boys, boys, boys.
“Do you even know who this is?” The voice sounds annoyed.
The question brings me back to the clunky phone. I pick up a knife and dig it into the table.
“No,” I answer, “I’m hungry. Call me when I’m not hungry.”
“Jane, it’s your mother.”
I stare at the phone in my hand. Mother? The woman who always wore that turquoise dress? I'd eat her if I could.
“Mother darling, how are you?” I put the knife down and twirl the phone’s cord around my wrist. My hand turns blue.
“Shut up,” mother says, “It’s a full moon. Tomorrow your sixteen and we should talk about what that means. Have you ever thought about having a boy?”
I laugh. “Oh Mother. I've been having boys since I was thirteen.”
I click off the phone just in time to hear her scream.
I'm hungry.
“Father!” I yell.
He comes running to me.
“Yes Jane?”
“I'm going out. I’ll be back after dawn. Don’t drink too much tonight. My arm hurts from always rubbing your back.”
He nods and shuffles through our lonely doorway.
I'm hungry.
It’s dark outside. So dark my eyes hurt but I like it. I tug my bun and out falls my hair. It licks my bare back. I am almost naked. I like the way night air feels against my bare skin, cool and foreign. I rub some cherry stain on my lips, and feel night grab my hips.
I smell a boy.
He is creamy and lovely playing guitar.
“Can I sit here?” I ask, pointing to the seat next to him.
He takes a look at me and gulps. Then nods.
I sit.
I'm about to dive in when something feels wrong. Just like the white and red boy before. Do I want to be that girl? I sigh, get up, kiss him on the neck.
It tastes like sweat.