That Girl

Selina Soria / POETRY

I don’t know who I am—a girl of sixteen with a forced decision—I never knew it could happen to me. He never swept me off my feet. My time with him was intoxicating and short. One harmless drunken weekend nailed my casket. Glaring streetlights illuminated blue eyes, the gleam in them faked innocence. At the devil’s hour, we stumbled up the stairs. He closed the bedroom door and my consciousness escaped me.

We blended into our new roles. Love traveled over the weekends. Three short days. A cycle of social drinking, smoking and pill popping. By the end of fall, he pressed a pregnancy test into my palms. Digitized letters sunk my soul. We held onto each other. Empty promises of false futures lingered around us. Before New Year’s, I admitted the life of her.

Shame flooded behind slammed doors

It needed to be erased; no one wanted my belly to swell. Swollen eyes and wet cheeks reminded me of my weakness. I wanted someone to fight with me, but he agreed.

I shivered alone in the waiting room.

I cut out my own tongue before the appointment, sealing away our fate. Nurses guided me to the exam table.

We could not uphold our roles. We scrambled around each other never meeting in our middle.

I didn’t want to be alone

Often, I wished I had reached out of my grave—sought out someone who didn’t know me, he craved the same. At the peak of loneliness, we squeezed each other for warmth. It was a race to see who would let go first. I tried to hold onto a piece of her, dragging the blade over old wounds. The apology I was looking for was from myself. That girl of sixteen, but I did not know her.