choked in iron fishnets, we
rest in pillars of youth, threading lace
ungarments in our mouths but
not quite spitting them out yet.
like buying your first razor, leaving five cuts in shapes of
floral tattoos on your knees and
burning them closed in pool chlorine. not a sin to be the
youngest in the room of women waiting for the
tampons to restock, feeling proud? they’ve long since forgone
embarrassment contrasting to how you chew on vitamin gummies nervously, you should offer them one too
but you don’t know if they’d accept from your
small little hands, and
white chocolate still breaks sweetly, somewhat
‘not sweet enough’ coating oral cold sores with that layer of undeniable
childhood sickness, adding extra weight to bitterness when
a year later we’ll be able to cry less and drink dark roast
coffee and pretend like the cusses that spill from your mouth are
familiar—you revel in the lawlessness but not bitter yet.
not until you can call your curses ‘righteous’. but for now, you’ll keep it:
your perchant for sweetness which lies in the
vanilla shaving cream you get at your local CVS, trading
averted eyes with the cashier for lack of ridicule in rubber swimsuits and
when sweet turns into saccharine maybe we’ll finally be able
to shed our first armpit hairs.