I knew it was a bad idea,
I knew I shouldn’t have gone,
but there I was,
in a sea of people, strangers;
rivers of red cups filled with questionability
and a smell as strong as gasoline
radiating from everyone’s breath.
Generic high school drinking party,
Generic mistakes to be made.

Then, a face,
older than the rest.
He gave me a red cup.
I accepted, I consumed,
and then I was consumed.
The people wearing different colors –
blurry red, blue, black –
they disappeared.

Hours of pitch black darkness,
waking up a mess,
not knowing what hit me,
not knowing who hit me.

All that was left were the reminders,
black and blue on thighs and neck,
blood, and blood not sent from the moon.

Now, the aftermath,
but nothing adds up;
1 + 1 does not equal 2 anymore.
Everything equals what happened,
everything equals red streaks against skin,
the blue blanket I woke up in.

But that's the point of it all, isn't it?
Life may sucker-punch you in the heart,
make you bleed,
but the world will never run out of band-aids,
always someone will be there.

And I will be all right.