It was 1969,
a summer
of date-rape
mislabeled free love.
The guy was
a friend of a friend.
I only knew him as John.
He invited me over
for a toke after work,
poured a glass of Red Mountain.
Even now,
I feel him
blocking my screams,
using his mouth
as a weapon.
Stoned, I couldn’t
fight back,
endured pain, humiliation,
seethed at becoming
one more of his victims.
After, I drove myself home,
smeared thick makeup
over visible bite marks,
scratches and bruises.
Never told a soul.
Still flinch
from nightmares
of unwanted touch.
