Such a pretty girl glances into the second mirror in the hall bathroom
that when she nods, and her soft chin and long hard eyes lift, her reflection snaps yes,
yes i know what i am and she hates it. Just the way she hates
pink lipstick, dim lighting, indie rock music, black dresses and vodka
cranberries and the lazy eyes of men who desire
but do not want her- the way she hates everything that made her, up to
God and Daddy and each delicate and symmetrical strand of DNA, and hair down to her
little waist and blue polished toes.

Barefoot, she eats strawberry ice cream on the hall bathroom floor, listens to an unpopular song
foretells the fate of girls like her and complains, to herself or prays, resentfully,
for someone who will rescue her from Maybelline, the PKA house, leering construction workers,
and anyone who's ever called her precious.

She doesn't take off her eyeliner but sleeps,
alone, and well.



terrible first attempt ever at poetry. inspired by cambridge ladies+girls like you (the naked and famous)+feeling too much like i'm becoming this kind of person and needing to create an ornate caricature to scare myself away from her.