there is something about the way she walks down the street, you recon,
and presses her tongue flat against the window.
the cold water and the spit mix well together.
or maybe it’s when she grips the pillowcase a little too hard and the fabric wrinkles,
or how she leaves traces of lipstick on mugs of champagne,
or when she taunts the old lady in france, leather blazer rustling, patting her knees.
and you think- wow, what an asshole. and it’s like, yeah, she is,
but isn’t that kind of the point? isn’t that the fun part?
because i think there’s something nasty about all of us girls. and
i think maybe we try to hide it too much, tucking it into the linings of our stomachs
among all the lipids and the gum we swallowed in third grade
like it's something to be scared of.
maybe we should be more like her,
deck our nasty out in jewels and pretty pink suits and blood.
stop being ashamed.
it’s about the way she keeps you on edge, isn't it? how she
takes that feeling in your gut and twists it up your throat.
and you want her: no, you want to be her. no. you want to be like her.
you want nothing to do with her.
look, okay, maybe you’re a little (a lot) obsessed,
but who can blame you? and there’s that thrill again
when she presses the knife into you,
or when she’s holding the gun and firing bullets into your head,
or when she’s looking at you in that black dress and
you don’t quite know what to do with yourself.
you like how you are around her. nastier. meaner. more unstable.
always with tears in your eyes, always with a slump in your posture.
your hair’s a little wilder.
sometimes if you move too quick it brushes your neck and you jump,
thinking it’s her knife.
it feels good, like you’re shaving down the layers of your skin.
like you’re unmaking your body.
soon you’ll hit muscle and nobody will know what to do with you anymore,
but you’ll still be here, and you’ll still be you:
warm and slippery and red, just like the blood on the ground.
it doesn’t matter whose it is.