Private School
Laura Murphy
Providence, RI
We grew up in houses made of sticks and
stone.
Never broke any bones, but 4 letters
words learned to nest
like parasites, feeding off lies we
willingly swallowed.
No one told us that love wasn’t meant as
a weapon.
Freshman year,
the first time the words “date rape”
slipped into casual conversation
and like a slap in the face to every
girl
with her mouth sewed shut by money,
we accepted it.
These are secrets we kept
because telling would crack every
platinum picture frame
of what high school was supposed to be.
I watched one of my classmates
convince the school nurse that the 5 bruises
blooming indigo on her inner thigh were
from field hockey practice.
Not the golden hands of our star
quarterback.
We accepted danger
the same as we heard the word beautiful
-
by ignoring it.
The after lunch hour sinks were too busy
to get at
girls rinsing blood and vomit from under
French manicured fingernails.
I watched weight drop off like clothes
in a heat wave
and by the time any of us bothered to
reach out,
we were just grasping at bones.
These are secrets we
keep
because telling wouldn’t do any good.
A girl I’ve known since age 11
was gangbanged after Junior Prom by 3
boys
I used to sit next to in homeroom.
I’ve met their parents.
The same hands shaking mine at
orientation
paid to keep our story out of your
papers.
Passing notes like bandages,
wrapping our own wounds with Vaseline
and paper towels,
forging our father’s prescription pads
to self medicate our way through
mistakes,
all our failures celebrated with bottles
of vodka.
These are secrets we kept
because it’s easier just buying new
clothes,
than trying to bleach out the gore.
Cracked windshield,
smudged lipstick,
fingerprints torn across safety glass.
Another party that ends in a body bag,
wearing blood on button downs like some
kind of medal.
We shouldn’t be proud of this,
but no one taught us that 4 letters
words
will shatter if they’re thrown hard
enough
and secrets have always been easier to
keep than promises.