it still rains behind the toolshed

TW: rape

you’ve taken your headphones
walking to the high school
on a rainy saturday.
you’re holding your sister’s
red ladybug umbrella, but
the ends of your hair
are still wet
and water pools
at the hem of your wide-leg jeans.
you’re uncomfortable,
pausing to adjust
the two bras you’ve layered
under your v-neck shirt.
you head behind the toolshed,
awkwardly ambling through grass,
soggy shoes stamping mud deeper
and deeper into unstable ground.
you try to brush as much rain as you can
off of a wet, waiting bench
while you sit twenty minutes
past the meeting time
for him to stumble
up the hill.
he greets you with a sloppy kiss,
he tastes like stale mint.
it almost makes you gag.
he touches your waist and
you look away.
whas’sup? he asks
and you do not respond,
only nod.
he does not care, anyway.
he caresses your cheek,
and looks into your eyes,
and his are vacant.
he leads you down,
knees to dirt,
and all you can think about
while searching for salvation
in the unbuttoned button above his fly
is how your mom just bought you these pants,
clean, straight, and blue,
and now you knew they’d just stay
shoved in the dark hidden part
of your mind and your dresser.
you let him guide you,
eyes squeezed shut while
thick, angry globs of rain
smack unforgivingly at your skull.
you shiver.
you wipe your spit-lacquered lips
and mirror his smile
looking up from the ground.
both are empty.
you hurry to say goodbye, apologizing.
i’m sorry, you tell him, and
he doesn’t respond.
you leave.
you walk home alone,
mud smeared on your knees.
it’s still raining.