My knees were made of bottle rockets. I was sixteen and not-so-sweet. I launched myself into everything, with my bloody heart, with my wanting hands. Do you recognize the fireflies we saw on your front lawn that night? I kept them in a jar, but when the glass broke, they swam my blood. I think they may have sunk. Ten years. It’s been ten years and the light still flickers on and off. You see me on the street sometimes, digging through my purse, and cannot fathom the reality of my body now. There is no pop, or spark, or flash. Woman, you say, like the word tastes bad in your mouth. I used to let you push tongue inside of me when we kissed. You liked the poetry better. You liked the girl better. You liked the light — there was nothing to be scared of, but you’re scared of me now. Because my knees have carried me places you could never have come back from. And I have let it change me. And you are still a boy.