We are girls who allow their insides to rot.
We don’t keep proper storage inside the house.
We let the boys unwrap us like cherry lollipops
and leave us overnight to dry out like droughts

We like coffee and water, don’t chew, just sip.
Coffee and bananas and not much else.
When our bones stick out of our ready-made hips,
we feel less like people and more like spells.

We want to bewitch you,
to enchant you, to delirium,
That’s how we like em,
dumb and numb and useless like scum.

We’re not psychopathic but we’ve witnessed good fights.
See, we don’t care about our nails, we war to die.
And if you catcall us under midnight streetlights,
this is warning that the rules won’t apply.

We’re vicious like lions and tigers and sharks.
We write sad words with pens full of poison
that the boys chant are about them breaking our hearts.
They’re wrong, but we let them make their ugly noises.

We act like we don’t mind being toys,
flaunting cherry-red aesthetics and they all want a taste.
But in the end all we want is something to destroy.
We tried ourselves but it’s hard to get rid of toxic waste.

Instead of drawing stick figures, we try them on.
They look especially good on girls like us.
Little boys from Metro like feeling our bones.
We compensate what we lack with eyeliner and dust.

And glitter is the best way to show ourselves off,
other than skin and back dimples and heart-shaped birthmarks.
We suck cough drops even when we don’t have coughs.
The world sees us as metaphors for something very dark.

But I promise you our combats will scuff the cement.
We’ll leave trails of the dirt we live in and make our marks.
We are girls who rot and don’t ever repent.
We’re sweet like candy,
but I swear to God we’ll smoke you like cigars.