I walk to the drugstore
down the street
alongside the girls
with the midriffed shirts.
It’s enviable,
the way that they still
believe.
The girls
with their short-shorts
and lace-ups
and ***** sneakers –
they believe in the party.
The party
is in the basement.
It's sticky and neon,
humid like August.
No one judges you there,
and you’re beautiful
and so are your friends.
See – when you’re 18
nothing matters
except the party.
For me? The party’s over.
I leave with a liquored tongue.
After all,
there’s only so much you can drink,
only so much you can be passed around
in the eyes of the boys,
only so much fun you can have.
Isn’t that the point?
We test our limits,
we want to die.
The red cups will be abandoned on some table
to be discovered later.
You hold the plastic-bottled *****
and pour it down your throat.
At least then you’re fun.
The boys will fumble over your body,
one finger too many
a hand pressing down on the back of your head –
like they dare you to resist.
You don’t protest,
you weren’t designed for it.
You submit,
at least then you’re good.
There’s too many things to say
about the morning after.
The bouncer tells you it’s last call,
and suddenly,
the party’s over.
