A pair of eyes, darker than the coffee he brews,
and curls that hang like a body from a noose.
She wouldn't have known if it weren't for the bruise
there on her left knee and the red and purple blotch left on her throat,
which screamed louder than the cries that escaped it.
And to the boys and girls who lingered the next morning
with hands folded perfectly from mouth to ear as they whispered
about the girl who was marked with indignity and shame;
about the girl who was left with no one to blame
but herself for an act that she did not ask for.
And as she knelt on the carpet below him,
she prayed that someone would save her but instead
she received an unholy feeling of guilt and disgust and regret,
imposed on her by the very people who handed her the alcohol and cigarette
that poisoned her lips and lungs and logic.
She couldn't recall her newfound promise to herself to gravitate
towards the boy who would lightly plant kisses
on her collarbones rather than her *******;
the boy with eyes sweeter than the coffee he brewed,
and curls that fell effortlessly about his face, as she did for him.
She couldn't remind herself to stay away
from the boys who's tongues tasted of tequila,
as she mistook the empty bottle of Patron in her sweaty palms
for love, and care, and nothing less,
and he mistook "No. Please, don't,"
for "Yes."