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 shit. 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 and scalding
hot showers to rinse the blood off.
Vanishing after you texted and told him
you were pregnant, and the shame slut-walked
all over Facebook. That innocence we knew is gone
like hope the RA isn’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
or feel like you had options. But here, now,
you’re left to break and mend, stitch the wounds
to not spill the secrets, sober your sorrows
and be back before Monday’s 8 a.m. exam.