By Elle Gordon, TIWP Student
I’ve never been kissed.
Well, one that counts.
You hear of your first kiss, at 13, with your Romeo and Juliet, or however else you identify.
But what if you were four,
you didn’t want to be an outcast so you did it though you weren’t sure?
You thought nothing of it
but a decade later you’re lying on the floor,
thinking of the shame you felt before
when you had no choice but to open the door,
let his lips touch yours.
Or that door,
when you were five,
and you stayed at your neighbor’s before school.
When you wore those ruffle skorts because you thought they were cool.
When you talk to their nanny on the overpriced stool.
And the little brother who liked you, but didn’t like to follow the rules.
Even in preschool,
he thought he had the power to grab your hand.
So in love with you that he started to drool.
And lock you in his room until you gave him kiss,
his eyes glimmering as if it were yule.
All of the blood drained from your face and you screamed as if you had seen a ghoul.
Until the nanny saved you with the keys she had to dual.
Though your lips never met,
you left there that day,
feeling more than your own dismay.
You felt its normalcy.
You wondered how many more times he would take advantage of a girl with that key.
How many girls have had kisses that don’t count
and how this was nothing, how many more experiences insurmount?
When you’re older, you’ll be way over it.
But you were hope you spend a message of how quick
men are taught to believe they can have everything they see:
a four-year-old you,