They Would Have Told You

They would have told you not to go to that party. Bowls filled with candy and condoms. Tequila. Vodka. Rum. Bottles lining the counter. You and your friend, hiking across a closed golf course because the security guard wouldn’t let any of you into the condo’s parking lot. You would have been home studying US History for the summer school class you had decided to take to get ahead for college.

They would have told you not to drink all of that tequila, your tiny black tank dress barely covering your ass, your hair wild and free, the older girls, jealous of your body, no fat, no exercise, no care. They tell you that you will miss this when you are older; you laugh and keep drinking, stuffing your face with Hostess Ding Dongs from the freezer.

You know they would have told you not to go into the jacuzzi bathtub with that one boy and then in the shower, killing all of the hot water for the condo, after you went down to the beach with another boy and told him no because you were on your period even though you wanted to say yes, the tequila not quite making its mark, yet.

They would have told you not to get the knife from the kitchen when you hear your friend scream, a mirror shattering, glass covering the bathroom floor, an angry punch not landing on its intended target.

They would have told you not to let the tequila spark the fuel of rage buried in you from recognizing the same glass shattering in your own life, punches always landing on their targets.

They would have told you not to plunge that knife into the wall next to his head, almost nicking his ear, as you see your friend crying, curled up in a ball, her hands covering her face, blood pouring from between her fingers.