You always remember your first time,
but the first time my heart broke?
I’m not sure.
It was already chipped the night
you appeared through the porch window
wild-eyed, manic laughter echoing.
“It’s locked. You’re not coming in,”
you sneered,
your twisted face a mask of cruelty,
spitting vitriol
that would replay in my mind
for years to come.
I walked into the dark,
my shame and tears lit
by the fluorescence of streetlights and passing cars.
Could they tell?
That I was unwanted?
That I had nowhere to go?
I did the sensible thing-
back then, I always did.
but sometimes I wonder:
What if I’d boarded a bus
and vanished for a while?
What story would you have told
when the reporters came knocking?
Would you spin your tale
until it hardened into truth?
Your truth.
Not mine.