Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how scared you were. Don’t think about how much tequila you drank. Don’t think about how happy and carefree you were for the first half of the night. Don’t think about the drowsiness that followed. Don’t think about that feeling of content as you sat in an armchair with that smile on your face. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about him. Don’t think about those eyes, how he saw how drunk you were. Don’t think about how you were a target from the moment he started talking. Don’t think about those words, the ones you didn’t hear, those words that you tuned out because they made your head hurt. Don’t think about following him outside. Don’t think about the fact that he was supposed to be your friend. Don’t think about the trust you obviously misplaced. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about that event. Don’t think about your back against the side of the house. Don’t think about his hands on your waist, your breasts, your legs. Don’t think about his breath on your face, the scent of weed in your nose. Don’t think about the tension building up in your throat, making it hard to breathe. Don’t think about his hands there, “encouragement”, he says. Don’t think about his arms on your shoulders. Don’t think about him trying to push you to your knees. Don’t think about his confusion. Don’t think about your terror. Don’t think about your excuses, your head hurting, your pleas to go back inside. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about the escape. Don’t think about someone walking by, distracting him. Don’t think about running away, back to the warmth of the house. Don’t think about the bottle half full of vodka, the one on the couch, abandoned. Don’t think about draining it. Don’t think about wanting to forget, to sleep, to die. Don’t think about passing out. Don’t think about being carried to a car, awakened and brought home. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about waking up. Don’t think about seeing him again. Don’t think about the way he acted as if nothing happened. Don’t think about carefully holding yourself together, every day, until you could say his name or see his face without screaming. Don’t think about the trust you had to rebuild. Don’t think about the callouses you had to form so you could hug a guy without having a panic attack. Don’t think about the loneliness you’ve endured. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about the triggers. Don’t think about the men in clubs. Don’t think about that guy from your residence, the one with the wandering hands. Don’t think about lying about your virginity because you’re ashamed, because you’re broken. Don’t think about the person that you tried to turn into, the one with no fears. Don’t think about it.
Whatever you do, don’t think about it.
