I Let The Dark Steal All of my Firsts
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I became a teenager between tequila shots and top 40’s. It was among thumping bass and watching the boy I like talk to another girl for a whole night that all of Lorde’s lyrics made sense to me. The first party I ever walked into was my baptism, a kind of welcome into teenage hood kind of thing. I still haven’t found my way out.
I had my first kiss in the after hours of a party. This moment I had built up in my head at twelve ended up being a mere game between drunk sixteen-year-old girls.
My first kiss with a boy was at another party. Unlike the first, anxiety was eating away at my insides that time. I watched the disco ball on the floor reflect lights on his face and made myself believe that I liked it.
I let the dark steal a lot of my firsts.
I don’t know what that says about me that I need the background noise to get intimate with a boy. I only kiss them on dares when I’m being cheered on and I have 6 minutes left to make their heads swim.
I have no clue how to approach intimacy when it asks more from me than a sloppy kiss against a sticky wall at a bar. The only love I get and give always tastes of vodka cranberries and free shots paid by someone who doesn’t stand a chance. The party girl me likes games and being chased when she knows she can’t get caught. She likes the teasing and pretending those are real guts that she has. She needs distractions near when she knows she has to look a boy in the eyes. I don’t know how to keep the love I’m constantly begging for. Party girl me thinks she knows how, but all she does is excite men and leave them on read as soon as the night is over.
My confidence exists between Friday and Saturday nights.
The real me, the one who doesn’t speak in blurred sentences, is too shy to say a word out loud. Her thoughts create traffic in her brain and when they finally pour out of her, they come out as monologues with no room to breathe.
I have no fucking clue how to want someone loud enough for them to hear it when I’m sober, and I want all the fucking time.
The boys I want on Monday mornings, sat anonymously in my classes, are the ones who want the loud girl I pretend to be on Friday nights. They like the noise, hearing a glass hit a countertop, wet kisses that taste like Jägerbombs and the fake electricity I pretend to feel. They don’t care that I break in half when I listen to White Ferrari by Frank Ocean, they don’t care about my wet eyes during ballet recitals. And I don’t even know how to show them this side of me. I want to watch the sun rise while sobering up with someone by my side.
There are a lot of things that I want out of life, I look at it with big, wide eyes and I’m not scared to be swallowed whole by the things
There’s a whole world in my brain, a dusty rose world where people kiss in slow motion amongst blinking lights and talk in touches and movie quotes. It’s the most interesting place to be. I just don’t know how to say this to someone without needing the liquid confidence to back me up.
All I wanted to be when I was twelve was the shining party girl. The no strings attached girl who collects phone numbers like they’re stamps. I wanted the attention that lasts 24 hours and the hook up stories. The girl painted by teen dramas that I ate up. Now, I’m stuck, I got lost in my own game. The shining girl took up all the room inside, so much so that I never learned how to exist next to the boy I like when Sunday morning comes.