We share our traumas
pajama clad and
drunk
at 2 am.

Girls that have hardly talked
except for a passing smile
now howling into the void
of pink moscato and
overpriced weed
as mascara writes poems
on our cheeks.

This is the truce of girlhood.
Secrets told into the soft carpets
of suburban basements don’t make it past
the drywall.
Someday, in dorm rooms
or cubicles, we will relish
in these moments
of unadulterated therapy.

Here we talk of assault
and abuse and
addiction and
death.
Here we are safe from men
and authority and
weight gain and
the emptiness that is
so unbearably
all-consuming.

As the sun rises,
we curl up on couches
under blankets much softer
than those we could ever think
of owning.

Our heads disconnected from our
aching bodies,
we sleep, and
for once,
the nightmares cease.