dumb girli have swallowed a sea of
anxiety, brushed off mountains
of despair, and told the giants
of misery to kindly leave me
i have fought the starving lions
of ache and agony.
i have shot myself in the leg enough
times to know that it never does
but never has the summer drowned
me in sorrow
to where i feel as if i have to
press my thumbs to its neck
and drown the summer itself.
i don't believe in jesusno one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth.
i don't get a dollar under my pillow for having sex with my boyfriend.
there are no doctors smiling at me when i tell them my cherry has been popped.
i am a whore for having premarital sex.
i am a tramp for loving someone enough to open my body to them.
no one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth -
but i slip mine under my pillow anyway, and in the morning when i wake,
there is a quarter and a tiny folded note:
"you are not a slut."
presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
like i devour books like candy
and never talked during class.
it's funny when people are nothing like how they look.
so let me tell you something,
let me set you straight:
i'd have you believe
i'm not some heavily medicated girl
with snakes up and down her body
in bright red rows, all raw and scabbed and
constant, ceaseless, neverending reminders of fucked-up and failure...
but it never took much for you to talk me into bed.
letting you think i'm some perfect porcelain figurine
without cracks all up my spine is about as ok as forging your mom's signature;
meaning it's alright as long as it's nothing serious.
and maybe that's the problem.
playing hopscotch cross-continent all summer and
making a patchwork quilt out of our travels when the cold sets in
is a pretty serious stab at giving us another go.
i can deal with touch, i just might shudder
lock and keyyou, ambiguous, startling blue—
your hatchet hands
manipulating the best in me,
causing those little tremors
that no other man could hope to taste,
dragging your tongue over my psyche
and marking it, as none have yet done
to my body— as, perhaps, none ever will—
I feel that, if I let myself,
I could love you,
feel that swift, transcendental danger
burying itself deep in my womb...
I curl in on myself
like a dying bud.