College cracked the fantasy wide open. All our Pretty Woman dreams flatlining in the bottom of some frat guy’s basement. Memories of the “talk” and how she left out the part about surgery. The stitching and staining and then, there’s recovery.
Came home for break still soaking through the gauze of this girlhood and all our moms could tell. But no one spoke the truth. That you can be six shots in and his hands won’t reek of meat. That his toothy grin won’t be dripping with blood and flesh. All the songs he’ll play in the dark corner or the back seat of his car will be foreshadowing. But you won’t remember a thing. You won’t ever know it
happened. ’Cause molly is the new pick-up line and he’s got those for days. Nothing mom said about chivalry and not putting out on the first date prepared you for date-rape drugs— scalding hot showers to rinse the memories out.
Vanishing after you told him you were pregnant; the shame hashtagged all over Facebook. That innocence we knew is gone like hope faculty aren’t hooking up with freshmen.
Somewhere between t-ball and toga parties the rules changed from checking yes, no, maybe to him marking his criminal territory. At least then you had the right to choose
and feel like you had options. But here, now, you’re left to break and mend, stitch your wounds to not spill the secrets, sober your sorrows and be back before Monday’s 8:00 a.m. exam.