Unfinished

Am I a woman when i turn 18? No longer scared to sneak dad’s old whiskey out of our Swedish glass cabinet Maybe it was when i got that first crimson stain on my yellow frilly knickers at 12 years of age. Or when I got “the” talk, you know the one about how you were conceived and what to do so you don’t end up pregnant as in, use protection. Perhaps I became a woman the day I woke up in my safe haven. Well, wrapped up in my best friends duck feathered quilt. After a wild Wednesday, that got way too wild. I went to the toilet and my favourite pair of victorias secret knickers were full of blood and my hair smelt like sex. Nasty, degrading sex. Not the nice kind that even though it’s your first time, a little messy and uncoordinated, you know it’s right. He may not be your first love or your last but he has your heart in this moment and in 40 years you will still smile at how young and foolish you both were. I mean the kind of sex that isn’t really sex. Because, shouldn’t there be more than one person participating? You’re drunk and trying to move away but for him, that’s not an option. You saying no is like a competition to him. Him, the stranger you met two hours ago. The kind of “sex” that leaves you dishevelled and torn. Not just your hymen that’s torn but all your pride, happiness, soft heart, destroyed. Your labium ends up purple and blue, the perfect description of your feelings. And eventually you stop fighting back. Sixteen, drunk and alone. Twenty-two, aggressive and well-built. No chance. Lifeless corpse, pounded. Pounded. Pounded. But it’s okay, There has to be an end. You’re driven home to your best friend’s house. Shaken, unstable. You walk in and don’t say a word. Just cling to her till sleep engulfs you. But you wish you never wake up. My poem, unfinished.