Before social media things were different.
You could be lost in a wooded area, pitch black, trying to find your friends while the uncertain apparitions of your fear dance between the spiny trees, no thought given to a selfie or an insightful sound bite.
You would get into cars with people you didn’t know, hoping they would show you a new world as they rage down country lanes at unsafe speeds. Girls would laugh and drink, but later some might cry.
You thought the glass table was just for placing your snakebite you half-heartedly poured from cheap cider that under no other circumstances you would actually buy. Until the credit cards come out and the night marches on in single file.
Harassment isn’t four guys pinning you down in the middle of a road letting alcohol fuel their judgment or pulling over to the curb to take a baseball bat from the trunk because someone wasn’t careful with their words.
Girls look through you and see genetic hope, but you dash their dreams and tell everything with a pulse that it’s love, because it’s what takes them to the candy shop.