Bruised

7 and 7 What my Nana used to drink to get “sloshed.” Vodka cranberry “They all drink vodka cranberries.” Your hand on my ripped tights-covered knee. How smooth you were about it, sliding it into your dialogue. You knew exactly how to lure me back to your apartment. Lying on your bed. Stripped. Revealing only the necessary parts. You wore a white shirt. Held me down. Bit me. Pulled my hair. Fucked me. I awoke pulling clumps of hair from my head and a kiss shaped bruise on my arm. Souvenirs from the last day of April.