"Their hands are what I remember. Or not so much their hands, but my body under their hands. The way..."

“Their hands are what I remember. Or not so much their hands, but my body under their hands. The way I slid my body under their hands, as one might slide a note under the door. Wanting their hands, the clutching hands of boys who do not know the weight of their bodies, or the weight of their words, so they drop these things carelessly, and bruise, wanting only to touch.”

- Marya Hornbacher, Wasted