“Dead girl walking,” the boys said in the hall.

“Tell us your secret,” the girls whisper, one toilet to another. 

I am that girl.

I am the space between my thighs, daylight shining through.

I am the library aide who hides in Fantasy.

I am the circus freak encased in beeswax.

I am the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame. 

When I get close, they step back. The cameras in their  eyeholes record the zit on my chin, the rain in my eyes, the blue water under my skin. They pick up every sound on their collar microphones. They want to pull me inside of them, but they’re afraid.

I am contagious.