Letters That I Never Wrote to myself--Number Two

I am seventeen.
Her room is messy.
Underwear all hanging drying
In the bathroom.
The kitchen sink is 
strewn with the dishes.
A half eaten pizza
on the kitchen table.
She seems sweet.
With a hunger for love.
Almost tenderness.
She undresses and invites
me to her bed.
Girls like her 
are ten a penny.
But I do no not
know this yet.
Because she is the first.