it’s always too warm or too cold in my grandmother’s house. windows open in the winter and shut tight in the summer. it was july, i think, and i was still figuring out how to wear my tank tops in just the right mix of confident and coy. i remember her hugging me on my way in, and noting the sweat pooling on her forehead. the windows were closed, curtains flung open, sunlight spilling over the hardwood floors.

it was always offhand comments from her, things like, have you thought about a diet? as if i haven’t been throwing up every meal since i was thirteen years old. like, jesus can fix anyone. i have always wondered if she really meant that, because i never felt like she thought i was broken. in between those sour comments she would spoil me and gush over how beautiful i am, how i'm really growing into my features. in between those comments she would give me ziplock bags of her favorite earrings from when she was a kid, and i would smile and humor her because she was so excited about it.

but those comments always sit in the back of my mind, stewing along with all of the backwards glances from men on dark streets and the angry red scars peppering my thighs. that big house is full of both sweet and bitter memories, and even now that it’s empty i can picture every sideways glance, every uncomfortable laugh.