First — Rachel Noelle Witt

First.
by Rachel Noelle Witt

What can I say except
the neighborhood was sparking
with cheap bottle rockets
and I was another year older
drunk on my independence
and I was hungry but the tipsy boys
were blinded by fireworks
and spilled all the charred hot dogs in the dirt
so I just sipped my gin
and floated up up up the stairs where
the lights were shimmering
and the thrift store couch was
a reasonable place to sit
and there was a boy-man sitting next to me
who talked to me in generic ways
until he drew close with his mouth
and I met it
because I decided it had to happen someday
I had to learn to live
the way flesh-and-blood people do
and saying yes is easier
so I still carry the taste
of a wrong kiss in the back of my mouth
but I have known ever since
how to pick my battles
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