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Feb 11
Hey bro,
I’m having a party later wanna come by,
I really shouldn’t,
C’mon it’ll be fun I’ll pick you up at 8.

What do I wear I ask,
I never get invited to parties,
I get ****** drawn on my yearbook,
And I always get picked last for sports.

Hey mom I’m going to a party,
Oh the normal,
Just a study group get together,
My words light as a feather.

The clock strikes 8,
You pick me up,
Right hand on your steering wheel,
Left hand flicking a cigarette out of your window,
The scent of your cologne,
Smells like home,
But the way you look at me,
Home is where I should’ve stayed.

Do you drink,
Like alcohol?

Yes like alcohol,
No not really,
Aw c’mon man you’re coming to your first party,
I really shouldn’t,
Don’t be a *****,
I laugh and shrug,
I knew I should’ve stayed home.

We arrive at your house,
I imagine this is what being famous feels like,
All eyes on you as you step out of the car,
Probably without the empty looks and questions,
Why is he here,
They probably felt bad for him,
Look at him,

The house was huge,
Owned by a business man,
Rich decor,
Only child,
What a lonely life.

Let me grab you a drink,
No it’s okay I’m really fine,
I bring you to my house and you want to disrespect me?

I guess I’ll have a drink,
That’s my boy,
With a wink and a turn,
You disappear in the crowd.

I sit on your couch in silence,
Bodies swarming by,
Conversations about *** linger in the distance,
I guess everyone knows something about someone,
Even if that person of subject knew nothing about it.

***** this,
***** that,
***** there,
And the best,
I guess **** are allowed here.

You return with the drinks,
Mine fizzy,
Your’s smooth,
Cheers he said,
Now drink your drink.

Consciousness came in and out at this point,
My cellphone gone,
I can’t call anyone,
I need my mom.

One moment I’m in the living room,
On the couch,
On the stairs,
In a room,
On a bed.

I can’t speak,
My hands numb,
I’m cold,
My clothes are on the floor.

One pair of hands,
Then two,
Then three,
I lost count after the blindfold,
My screams cut short by loud music and rags.

I wake up,
My head hurts,
Bruises all over my body,
I’m in my bed.

My mother comes in scolding me,
Telling me how he brought me home,
That he told me not to drink so much,
That I fell down the stairs,
This is where the end of my life started,
With a “Hey bro”,
A drink,
A clink,
And a suicide.
Michael Lopez Jr
Written by
Michael Lopez Jr  21/M/Cali
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