my blog has become this weird mixture of fandoms, feminism, cats and really fucking stupid jokes that nobody outside this website would find remotely amusing
as a kind of currency, we’d tug
our camisoles low, use
our newfangled bodies to haggle
with the ice cream man. The winner
was the girl who received her chocolate cone
for free, who sucked on candy cigarettes
the same way she wore a training bra.
That summer my pockets grew forests
of hand-tied maraschino cherry stems:
tampered evidence that I might one day be worthy
of kissing. In exchange for rides
on the handlebars of their bikes,
we’d let the boys bite
the beads off our candy
necklaces until the chokers
resembled punched out teeth.
From their slobber, blue and violet
stained my throat where the sweetness
had once been, so I suppose,
Your Honor, I was preparing
You don’t get presents on your birthday because you were born, you get presents as rewards for still being alive.
Some guy just whistled at me while driving by and my dad goes “don’t worry, that was for me”