By Juliette Lopez
Lightning’s signature illuminates the sky
on a Sunday evening in mid-June.
My entire existence is rumbled,
as rain kisses my fingertips.
The thought of you
rests in the black clouds
hovering over my dripping head.
Your hands running up my body—
raindrops matching the beat of my heart.
Whispers in the dark;
at 17, I had never felt so alive.
But I’m not 17 anymore,
and it’s been almost two years
since you asked me to sneak out
to your house at 3 a.m.
We weren’t in love,
but our casual hookups were
like something out of a movie—
except you didn’t stand outside
my window with a boombox,
instead, you asked me to buy Plan B.
At 17, I never felt more scared and confused—
standing alone in CVS
as the 60-year-old woman behind the checkout counter
looked me up and down—
and the boy that I had fallen for never texted me back.