of being forced to play
dress up in frilly little skirts and rainbow
colored tube tops.
She overdosed on pink,
came to and ran
for the nearest Sharpie. It took four
to kill the nightmare blonde
of her hair, and one fine-tip one
to complete her new tattoo that screams
my name does not mean stupid across her neck.
That poseur Ken thinks it's hot. But she carries
a switchblade now. He's keeping
An old safety pin contributed
all sorts of new piercings to her face
and ears mostly. Her body plastic was too hard
for anything more . . . controversial.
She'll never pass inspection
at the airport metal detectors. She'll have to skip
vacation, which is fine with her. She prefers her skin
in whiter shades of pale. And Calypso music
makes her want to vomit.
She finally moved
out of the Dream House and into a studio
apartment over a mechanic's shop. She bought
a crotch rocket. Started painting
everything black. She scoured
thrift shops for new used clothes, all 80's
retro t's and ripped jeans, and almost lost
her mind when she realized her feet
were ruined. Permanently disformed. She caved
in and bought high-heeled combat boots.
Now she sits for hours in her half-way house
styled bedroom. In front of the mirror she convinces
herself. They will not beat me. I will
find a way to scrub this simple
stamped smile off my face!