I love my shell.
Not thick. Intentional.
Others whisper, “How do you stay so calm?”
“Easy. Stop expecting rescue. Reinforce the spine. Guard the soft spots.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Lonely costs less than therapy.”
Men test the perimeter.
One taps and grins, checking for hollow spots.
Another presses harder. Claims intimacy requires exposure.
I let them tire themselves out.
I advance when I feel like it.
Retreat when I don’t.
Everything I need travels with me: snacks, boundaries, low expectations.
Last week, a boy flipped me onto my back.
The sky exploded overhead. My stomach flashed in the sun.
Not my best angle.
I waited.
Pride has limits.
“Poor turtle,” she murmured, and set me right.
(c) Lynne Curry, 2026, first published in Bright Flash Literary Review on 3/5/2026
