How many years later and she's sick
of putting her faith in boys and bugs.
She's learned to block the voices out
and focus on her own desires.
For a long while she didn't know
she had any. What a shock to want
like they wanted. A sequined dress,
an airless room, and arms
waiting like loaded crossbows.
Not to put feet on the ground,
but to roll in it. To lose things
and to carry on.
Sometimes she'd drink so much,
everyone would grow into the wooden bar,
and the bar would become a dense forest
with branches like cocktail tridents
that tore at her bright hair and perfect eyes
and she would lie down on the bar top
to let them devour her piece by piece.
She knew she was like a mythical liver
and would grow back each night with the stars.