"Boys will be Boys," the Headmaster says, flicking it off his shoulder and into the little girls lap, like a bug.
But the sentence hangs in the air, stale in her mind, mouth and ears. She nods, and leaves.
"Boys will be Boys," her older sister growls, slamming the bathroom door in her face when asked why her body is painted purple.
"Boys will be Boys," rings in her mind as the alcohol has flooded her veins, and he holds her down. There's no one to call out to. No one can hear her choked screams.
Boys will be Boys.
Boys will be Boys.
But the bruises don't feel like kisses
and the coldness doesn't feel like love
so don't tell me that "Boys will be Boys"
that's not fucking good enough.
