I remember the look on your face
when you told me about your first time.
How it was messy and frantic and hot,
and not in the romantic way.

How all he said was, “My friend’s got something,” and left.
Left you lying there, frozen in your drying sweat,
wondering..."What's he got?

Left you bare, vulnerable against the world,
against the war raging inside your head.
“He was a Costco shopper, his friend,”
you will tell me between sips of gin.

I remember the first burn of whiskey,
as you poured it into your hand...
and let me lick it off.
Not in the romantic way.

All you said was, "It's supposed to burn.
That's how you know you're alive."
I wondered what it'd feel like to die.

You left me bare, vulnerable and bleeding,
lying there with whiskey on my breath,
while you waged a war on your body.
"This is how I know I'm alive."