seventeen

seventeen is turning out to be a bad year
we hopped in his car
he drove and drove and drove
just a small blue dot on the map,
gravel spit, and teeth chattered.

the room was so blue the walls pulsed
we just got undressed.
it feels stupid to dress this in similie, metaphor.

i wanted to run away but there wasnt really anywhere to go
all i could see was green and trees and fields for miles
his shirt had tiny holes, and
he smelt like sweat and skin and old man,
my face pressed into him and he pressed into me, heavy.

i thought of running, but i could not leave her.
there wasn't anywhere to leave to.
my heart pounded so hard and fast,
so i just imagined it was my feet on the pavement.
i wanted to cry and scream, i wanted to push
and writhe away,
but i felt limp and empty,
i traced letters with my tongue in his mouth, 'oh no'

she watched, i think stared,
she looked through us,
far off, eyes unfocused -
please, please! i fumbled and tugged at her arm,
i tried to get her attention, i wanted her to see the
desperate look on my face,
i needed a way out, i couldnt breathe
underneath all the fabric and fat.

still i regret pulling at her arm,
the thought fills me with guilt.
and when he kissed her it was
twice as horrifying. we looked at each other,
i knew she didn't recognise me,
i was just skin and empty space,
she was just skin and empty space,

we both pretended really well,
i was not home. i was not home.
i sobbed and whimpered and,
ashamed,
i tried to force it into a laugh.
a comic disguise, i didn't know if i was still breathing,
so i kept huffing out air, laughing, laughing, every -
time the sobs rose up in my throat,
laughing.
at the absurdity of it all,
my own helplessness,
the fear, the fear.

I watched myself from the wall,
she peered at me from the other corner.
the blue walls pressed inward, unforgiving.
it was wet and cold and time was stretched out,
and compacted again,
stretched out,
and compacted again.
i was not home.

it feels fragmented now,
thigh, hair, hipbone, tongue
pain, blood, hands and hands
and hands and hands

he was old and grunting, he pressed our faces together.
why was this our first kiss this.
i hate that our first kiss was this.
i could not close my eyes,
it felt too dangerous. and instead of,
slow-dancing to a ballad when our lips touched,
the backdrop was naked and mucous and grunt.

yesterday i cried, and in the waiting room at the doctors office I read:
'theres something beautiful about two women who fall in love'
and i think about how softly her kisses rest on my cheek,
how warm it feels to be held in her arms,
how we shoulder the pain for one another when its too much,
how our hands braid together so easily.
i think about how we stared in each others eyes one morning,
how the sun hits her hair,
the warmth of sharing a blanket,
the invincibility we feel walking beside one another.

and i think about where we came from,
what this started from,
the dirty, back-alley, gravel road, spit and old man grimaces,
the nightmares and hatred and guilt and blame,
gnawing our fingernails till they bleed,
shaking and screaming and pain.

i dont understand how to process this.
honestly i dont understand it
this poem is shit, these line breaks are just to make me feel like
maybe something could come out of this.
this poem isn't beautiful, or easy to read.
it is just honest.
it is barren, i am barren.
i am empty, i feel hollow.

I am aged beyond my years.
I am tired.
when the doctor asked me, 'how old are you?'
i struggled to find an answer.
'seventeen' feels not quite right.
i feel not quite right.