Hit Me With Your Best Shot
You caught my wrist outside the door
the night Jess stripped down to her bra
and climbed up on the bar to dance.
The DJ cranked Pat Benetar,
cat calling Jess in just her bra
and mismatched socks as slutty boys served shots,
air-kissed the DJ, lip-synched to Pat Benetar,
then pulled each other towards the back
where they had sex with sweaty boys. Free shots:
hard alcohol in plastic cups. The fire in my throat
as Kat’s hand pulled me towards the bathroom.
Cracks. Graffiti. Drugs. Cement. No soap.
More alcohol in plastic cups. Kat’s mouth hot on my throat
when she and I made out against the wall.
Cracks. Graffiti. Drugs. Cement. No soap.
My knee between her thighs. Our pupils wide. My foot
flat to the wall when Kat and I made out
while Lexie puked and Jess danced on the bar,
some hand between her thighs, her pupils wide, your footing sure.
You caught my wrist outside the door.
-- Emily Moore
