I Didn't Write This, Sophie Did.

a brief history of human interaction

December 23rd, 2017.

We’re fifteen, drinking vodka in my walk-in closet, prank calling everyone we know. We wear our inebriation as a badge of honor. I start reading the Qu’ran that I took from my dead mother’s bedroom aloud. Madeline writes “I’ll die young at heart” on my mirror in lipstick.

When you seize I know to just hold your head.

I’m seventeen. We’re on the floor of your girlfriend’s brother’s bedroom. I wanted you but not like this and it hurt so bad, I keep asking you to please stop. It hurts. You want to keep trying and so you do. I tell my friends I finally fucked you like it was a victory. You change your profile picture to your girlfriend kissing your cheek within eight hours.

You speak to me like you have spent your whole life preparing your throat for these words and they still come out stuttering. When I turn over in my bed as I start to lose consciousness and my t-shirt rides up, I move my hand over my ribcage and I understand for a second what boys mean when they tell me I am soft all over. I dig my nails in and dream I am a gazelle lying dead in the grass and your mouth is dripping blood over me.

September 27th, 2018.

I’m nineteen, and I introduce my two best friends to coke for the first time. After Madeline blacks out and I put her to bed the other comes upstairs crying because a guy in the living room said that every man is capable of rape. She keeps apologizing for being irrational.

You tell me, “I don’t know what you want me to do. I could give up everything and become a hermit in a temple dedicated to you and you would still just think I’m an asshole.”

I spent three days sleeping next to Rose on a hospital floor. She cries and tells me she thinks she is being punished. She says she’s glad this isn’t happening to me. I’m too high and I’m listening to the monitors and thinking that I hate to listen to computers read human bodies and not the other way around.

October 2nd, 2018.

I’m twenty-one. You rail cocaine off my stomach and we spend the whole day watching cult documentaries. I text you at three a.m. saying, “I keep thinking about roaches eating dead bats and getting stabbed in the chest. I don’t know how I ever slept without you.”