Sharpen your jawline
with a piece of sandpaper. Try not to break
the skin; grime will settle
into your blood and spread like poison,
and you're here to fix you,
not the opposite.
Trade in your pixie sticks
for tampons—they have more use,
anyway. Trade in your tampons
for strap-ons and taste your own blood
on her fingers.
Tell your God that He’s not worth it
if you aren’t.
Take her to the duck pond,
when the sun is out and you feel decadent.
Ignore their whispers
as you kiss her cheek.
Build a rowboat out of paper mâché,
and try not to worry as it melts
beneath your thighs.
This poem is about: