With the lights off and the movie on
the big screen
in front of us, sitting next to each other, practically on the same seat,
when his arms find
their way
around my waist and stomach, one hand resting beneath my thigh.

My heart starts to beat faster
we’ve never touched like this before, even if it is only cuddling
so comfortable, and relax
like real couples interact.
Then I realize what the beating of my heart is truly indicating.

I think of you. How you sat next to me
on the bus that day
on the way home. How your still-small,
but experienced hands
also found
my thighs.

Your disgusting fingerprints
have never washing off no matter
how many times I scrub every day.
You make me want to slide out of my skin and replace it like a snake.
Your greedy fingers molested me
mutated me into…

I pull his arm around me tighter
holding him in place,
his face,
holding his face inside my head to stop the
nauseating, sensitivity
that comes from the touch of a boy.

as he’s holding me like that, I snuggle closer into his body while struggling internally to hold everything back,
whispering in my ear; making me laugh in a forceful way that goes unnoticed,
as apes roam free on the screen.
I keep thinking of you, eight years ago, doing the same without my permission.

The sudden urge to push his arms away comes on instinct. I turn to look at him,
heavy, accusing questions and statements on the tip of my tongue,
unable to see inside his heart through his eyes.
He looks back at me and I am thankful
we are watching a movie that needs dark glasses to see properly.
Or he would be able to see the raw fear burning within my eyes
He’s talking to me, with a slight smile on his face
and shame overpowers me,
disappointed in myself
angry.
Though I don’t reveal what I am thinking:
I could ruin something that I’ve been waiting for.

But since it seems to be happening,
pure, overwhelming fear
starts to emerge from the depths within my soul.
I play it off
playfully telling him to be quiet.