Congrats, it's a party trick

and trauma is the punchline

I feared that car—
the rumble of it, the locked door of the passenger seat.
A shiver down my spine before rubber kissed gravel—
engine growling like a promise and a warning.

He was efficient like that,
how people are when they are double your age.

He smelled like canned beer, sweat, dorm room carpet,
and cheap cologne trying to cover cum-stained sheets and ashtrays.
I could taste the decay of my little bones even before he touched me.

Like bile rising up my throat, just that you can throw up bile and get rid of it.

Dread, not so much.

His hands—too big. The rest, just as well.
He never fit without tearing.
And I think he liked that about me.

I was made to stretch like silence in a locked room.
Weight pressing me down,
until my ribs learned to fold like clipped wings.
He taught me to bleed quietly. To bite my tongue.

No one likes crybabies, right? Besides, the blood tasted much better than he did.

He taught me how not to gag.
Grabbed my hair like reins,
mouth just a choke-hole.

The stain of his friend’s voice laughing teach them young.

Deep Throat so comfortable it’s a party trick.
Trauma as a punchline.

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