the girls we aren’t

Today during one of my lectures, a guy said girls are wicked. And my heart
jumped like it’s been called an old childhood name. Wicked, they always
said. Girls, candy floss and their twisted heads. I will swear I’m not one of
them. I will swear I have changed, please I will swear. Oh honey,
I swear too much for a girl. Fuck that. Let me tell you about nasty girls
and their dirty tales.
I see them in the corridors of somebody else’s life, red eyes and warming
their cheeks with salt water. I see them running with bruised knees and
hickeys on their necks, running with hands in their hair pulling out the
poison at the end of their roots. I see them in the mirror of a best friend’s
bedroom, hissing at you who won’t forgive them for leaving, for shedding
the strawberry skin you gave her. That girl, I swear she’s one of them .
At restaurants, pulling out her red lipstick, brushing the velvet of her
honey skin against married men. Later in the alley, bare shoulders and alone,
watching him reverse his car out of there, his love out of her,  picking out the
seeds of a forbidden fruit from her teeth, wicked girl. I see them at dance floors,
and quiet corners of a blurred party, their heads hanging low, tired and unwanted,
short dresses and cigarettes, mumbling words like home and mama, words that
never leave their mouths when they’re sober. I take the same bus with them, borrow
their scarves that feels more like a rope, wicked girls, soaked in sadness, hanging
themselves to dry and toes reaching out to the ground. I meet them at parks, flowers
and vines on their summer dresses, their picnic baskets carefully packed
with regret and solitude, lost love and missing husbands. Wicked women, cheeks
pressed against the glass house with too many souls stuffed inside. wicked women
breaking homes for oxygen. I watch them waiting, dripping blood from their wrists
 in bars, in homes, in parks and in hospitals.
Darling, wicked girls, you see them everywhere, doing dirty crimes, screaming nasty
things, mostly to themselves. Wicked girls, bleaching their own throat,
scratching at their skin, pouring gasoline on themselves and holding out the matchstick
to the world. I sit in class with these girls , jump at the word wicked, look at
each other in horror and realise the world has found us and has lit us to flames.

One thought on “the girls we aren’t

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