These streets;
the ink smudge where the motion repeats
dry, cracked heels, dirty feet
Point A to Point B
and somewhere in between:
thoughtless impulse.
I spit a cigarette
lit the wrong way in the dark
a fucking waste
the taste never forgotten.
There’s six in this group
I flat-out refuse
to get in the boot.
I’m a good girl
doing the bad, coming of age, acting out
vulgar and know-it-all
unladylike and loud.
I guess (unknowingly)
all part of the “figuring it out”
through trial and mistake
and the choices I make
as part of the shaping
taking corners without breaking –
I squeal in delight.
Fifteen
and the memory
She locked herself
in the bathroom
refusing
to open the door
I was summoned, the authority
exasperated with hands in the air
“talk to her, will you”
“Go away! I want to kill myself.”
I could do nothing
but bare witness
to the moment that later,
we pretended hadn’t occurred
the next day
normalcy returned
and I rubbed my temple
where it had burned.
Sometimes I hear the words, coming out of my mouth
and I wonder what you think of me –
am I she of loose-morals,
she, the hussy, the attention-seeking
she of desperation, of self-degradation
she of poor judgement, with questionable choices
she, without stability.
