Don’t remember. Don’t remember the first time. Don’t remember him unhooking your bra. Don’t remember the way his hands moved so hungrily against your body. Don’t remember the dark confines of the car, a silver SUV, parked at the top of your street. Don’t remember the tight black skirt you were wearing, the white tank top, the black tights. Don’t remember how he climbed on top of you, trapping you in the reclined seat. Don’t remember the way he touched you roughly. And everywhere. Don’t remember how much you liked his attention at first. Don’t remember the sickly damp smell of the summer night when you finally got out of the car. You were so young. Don’t remember the second time. Don’t remember the dappled light of the wooded area. Don’t remember the distant laughs of children on that crisp autumn day. Don’t remember thinking that it was such a romantic setting. Don’t remember him pulling you on top of him, even though you said you didn’t want to, you were in public. Don’t remember him brushing off your protests like fallen leaves from his shoulder. Don’t remember the way he again touched you so greedily, hand up your dress. Don’t remember the way his fingers pulled aside your underwear and pushed into you, again and again. Don’t remember how rough he was, and how you told him you didn’t like it, stop. Don’t remember how he said that you would get used to it. Don’t remember the pain, blood. Don’t remember. You were so young.