In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First!.”
The day she tugged off the armor,
the woman-child trembled.
Her fingers, twittering birds of frustration,
crept across the metal planes like the wind
She bit into her lip, the scarf unraveling from her cheeks,
her skin prickling against the chest-plate,
now stuck to her like a tongue on a frozen lamp post,
and she winced.
She winced as the chafed skin underneath,
pinkened with blood
and naked with possibility
revealed one new set of eyes
and two sets of hands.
Those eyes had watched her skin unravel inside the armor,
those hands stretched out to steady her
offering a blanket, offering an embrace,
but only after each tendered piece of metal
each nook and cranny of remaining child
was well and truly gone.