Eighteen years old
and never an interest in a
boy’s hand on any
part of my body.
Friends talk about
sex and I debate whether
I’m jealous or disgusted,
not coming up with an answer.

You’re best friend texts me with questions
I’ve never been asked,
never wanted to be asked,
should I have wanted to be asked?

Somehow I find myself
chugging beers in your
basement trying to
forget that
I don’t want you
near me because
I’m supposed to want you
near me.

You trip over your words and
your hands land on
my chest,
your mouth on mine,
my body screams everything
I don’t know that
I’m allowed to say.
I stay quiet.

“You want this, right?”
I don’t even know
how I got here,
but I nod
because
I am supposed to want this.
Everyone else wants this.

You’re on top of me and
it’s hard to breathe and
with every thrust,
I hurt more and
more.
The moan you thought were
from pleasure were
pleads to stop,
to realize I wanted to
stop.

You suck on my neck,
my chest.
Bruises I need to cover tomorrow.
I’m supposed to like this,
not allowed to say no.
The only virgin in class,
supposed to like this,
just pretend to like this.

You finish.

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