Empty cans litter rooms, reflecting –

spotlights on hot bodies.

Music blares, blasting

bass from the windows

to the walls.

Her stumbling, staggering legs protrude,

sticking out from under

a short skirt.

A teary talk in a toilet

clumps and smears her lashes.

Shoved to the couch, an arm

tangled and knotted with her, constricting

whispers slither down her neck: a game of fingers.

One down for each sin. Her honesty backfires.

A finger unmoved exposes her innocence.

‘Kiss, kiss, kiss.’

Chanting echoes over music.

Her red face turns, a grin plastered

on his face. A soft peck, quick enough to be missed.

But the cans put them on blast.

Another moment wasted.

Next time, she will

lie. Safe

far from pressure, far from immature

Boys.  

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