You’re just a girl, a sweet, young thing in forty-percent-skin, sixty-percent-cloth, doe-eyed with long lashes, and you’re lonely, so you follow him back, you follow him back to a dimly-lit room that smells like cigarettes and rain, and you think it’s romantic, he’s romantic, he has big hands and deep set lonely eyes, the kind of eyes that tell a story, that resonate with every pain you’ve ever suffered and every love you’ve ever lost, that you want to end with a fairytale, and he tells you secrets whispers vulnerabilities leans over to kiss you and you almost fall in love he begins to lie you down until you’re submerged trapped beneath him, and you’re suddenly in a room that smells like stale smoke and mold with a boy whose sunken eyes lace nooses around your doe eyes, long lashes, and you whisper a plea, say “let’s slow down a little” say “I don’t want to do this” but deep set lonely eyes hunger you’re weak you realize this as you push back arms strung with veins that pulse just like yours and you become a woman, a woman with round, goosebumped thighs and shaking fingertips and you’ll will eyes to fall but eyes that cry, doe eyes long lashes, have escaped;
                                                    years later, each time you pass a mirror, you’ll see deep set lonely eyes
                                                    where doe eyes long lashes used to reside, and you might try to write this  
                                                    all down, but your fingers will get numb in cold November winds and
                                                    you’ll remember a vague outline of doe eyes long lashes that once seemed
                                                    familiar but escaped years ago, and you’ll stop writing
                                                             ­                                                                 ­               start forgetting