You never said no.
He was 19, you were 16. You knew no better.
“It’s not your fault.”
But you shouldn’t have had
quite so much to drink.
“It’s not your fault”
But it isn’t he who cries
In front of that crucifix
At the confession line in mass.
“Good girls don’t do that”
But screw the good girls.
You can swallow the world in one shot of vodka.
Slut. Whore. Harlot.
You have a reputation Miss Ahearne.
“Lucie stop crying”
Lucie drank pills yesterday.
And Sophie was locked in a stall.
Save us Márquez!
El mar crecerá con mis lágrimas.
The grave in your heart is deeper
The acid in your brain more scalding
Arteries ripped and harrowed,
The oxygen in your lungs tells a more ominous tale
I’ll tell you a secret.
Sometimes her spinal cord
Feels like she’s being impaled
To her own used, disgusting body.
And to those of you who won’t believe the last sentence.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.
She burns like the fifth circle of hell.