Seventeen

I'll try to find a way to explain to you how I was. How my hips were sharp and my hands were long and my breasts so big in my otherwise tiny frame.

How I'd go out in a see-through white spandex shirt paired with jeans and I did not care. A true rebel at sixteen enjoying life even though I never felt beautiful.

Cause there were always others prettier than me. But I was the one wearing the lowest neckline.  I had the highest heels. I was the one ready to spend the night with you.

I would stick my hand beneath your jeans without batting an eye. You may not notice me at first, but surely you would hear about me. And maybe find a dark, lonely room where I could disgrace you. Or share bodily fluids or simply listen to music together.

And maybe later act like nothing happened. And I would never see you get old and gray. And if there ever was a "we", it would be locked and lost in that one moment. Because at seventeen life is not the same as it is at forty-something and desire seems more important than a home and fortune and because those days are never coming back, did they really happen?

I was the hero in my own story. But now, who is writing these lines?