Party Girls

Party girls, pretty party girls
holographic lids, daggers for nails,
dewy skin under fishnet felonies
how I dreamed of being them.
How I dreamed of flaunting tangled hair,
flirting with newborn night, red lips
teasing the necks of glass bottles,
the necks of bug-eyed boys,
drunk on the angels of adolescence.
The art of slipping through a cracked window,
midnight pact of secrecy
between foot and floorboard.

Pretty party girls, pretty perfect party girls
I could never be them–
never graduating from the school of deception,
how to kiss a willing soul and have it mean
nothing, how to be a body,
just a body in a backseat headed for hell,
how to not tell my mother I love her
as she curls my hair,
giddy over the boys who bring me flowers,
taking photos, beaming from the driver’s seat-
I cannot be wild,
only hers.

Party girls, pretty party girls,
you don’t look so hot handcuffed to regret,
forehead lines, white lines
there’s the line, can you walk it?
Spilling drinks, spilling stomach
down the leather seat
of a blue and white bad dream.

Party girls, pretty party girls,
he just wants your tipsy Friday night,
not your chocolate chip pancake Sunday mornings,
just your sequined belly button ring,
not your father’s firm handshake.
He won’t open doors for you, brush
the wetness from your cheeks.
He will leave you nauseous, grasping
for sobriety, another name blurred by daybreak.
Who are you again, pretty party girl?
Are you just a home for his mistakes?
I cannot be his home, his girl, his name,
his stolen skin.
Only my own.
My skin is the one
I wear.

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