Bratz Gone Wild
We’re stained glass soldiers, spitting sunflower seeds under
wind chimes. I’m eating lemons whole at dinner tables without
a face to impress and hummin’ in the creak of porch swings, trying
to show you I know your favorite indie band. Fog rolls in because
I like the way my breath looks in the cold— it makes me feel like
a dragon. Wind blows; you’re the big bad wolf this Halloween.
But you’re tired of that Bratz cherry lipstick, you want those
candied toxins. Yasmin can’t save you anymore, it’s all about
spitting tobacco in leather jackets with cigarette holes. Your mother
asks you why? that was a new jacket. Tell her something mysterious,
compare it to the holes in society where our taxes flood into.
Steal street signs my father paid for because you need a spine.
It’s okay. I forgive you. I’m scared, too.
We’re sippin’ Irish whiskey now, one hand on the wheel,
shooting Bambi and smoking cigarettes (because it makes
me feel like a dragon). Your new favorite music is rap—how
do I hum that? Your lipstick is red eyeshadow because
your mother will only buy you Bratz lipstick, she says anything
else is for whores. I promise not to tell. It doesn’t matter,
you leave anyways. I am left to bury Bambi’s body.
I’m sweating off Vyvanse now, screaming thunderstorms
and crying rain over lost love, huddled in blankets as I sob
into friends under bathroom counters at five a.m. I’ve got orange
fingernail paint, but only on one hand— the other is stained
black from dying my hair. I’m the champion of fight club.
I’m still scared.
I’m scared.
I still hum your favorite songs.
write songs.