My first open-mouthed kiss was stolen
by a boy named Bill two years older than I.
New Year's Eve, a party at my house
full of parents' drunken friends babbling about downstairs,
the living room glowing with a champagne buzz.

He showed up uninvited with a friend's boyfriend
and some beer in a book bag.
Five of us locked ourselves in my room
and played drinking games and laughed quietly
until the clamor faded downstairs.

Everyone decided two drinks in that they were
too drunk to call their parents for a ride,
so I designated places to sleep
and saved my room for myself.

I guess I didn't lock the door
because I didn't see a reason
for anyone to creep in silently
and crawl into my bed while I was sleeping
but that's what happened
and I woke up to an undesired new tongue my mouth.

I quickly chased him to the hallway with a pillow
and locked the door behind me,
panting and fuming and half-laughing
through unexpected tears
and fell into an uneasy sleep
I'd grow to recognize in the years to follow.

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