The Poet Is Dead

maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. she was standing in the sun scratching her legs. or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. her hair was being pulled. or she was pulling someone’s hair. and a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted - wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. in the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. part of you thought: please don’t look at me. if you don’t, i can still turn away. and part of you thought: look at me.
Nicole Krauss, History of Love