I'm staining pillowcases with eyeliner
and leaving traces of cherry chapstick and glitter lipgloss on her worn
jeans and on her too-prominent cheekbones
my sneakers are scuffed and
colored with sharpies, lines of Sylvia plath poetry faded under mud
stains and street salt
the water pouring down my throat is hardand cloudy and leaves me aching my teeth grind and my smile is
sarcasm dripping. my thumb is burnt and redwhite and I leave her bedroom
with my shirt twisted and my hair a mess, glowing bendablebreakable on
the sidewalk thinking about tattoos on her hipbones and piercings in my lips
and I'm drinking cheap beer out of Disney character plastic cups and
listening to cds that jump from techno to acid screams, my foot tight on the
gas pedal and my cell phone shrieking, I turn it up a little louder and scream along with them
my heart is pounding and my exit is coming up, I miss it and don't
look back, my jeans are torn and I'm wearing sandals in February and I smirk at
my reflection in the rearview mirror I'm the kind of girl who gets that second glance.
my skin is damp and pale and fingerprint bruises decorate my throat, and my
levis hang low on my hips and my cigarette hangs from my fingers, i smile at you
and you stutterstep, and trip. the poetgirls are striking back.
(my wrists are razor thin and
my lips are cherry flavored on
her breast, my mouth is dry, my throat is hot and
we call this the revolution)
