girls can read it too.

it's the middle of the night, and you're wearing the same thing you wore for years, combat boots and knee socks and a plaid skirt a few inches above the knee. the police pass, and you laugh, because carrying milk back to the store is no excuse when it is spoiled, unwholesome, if you will, the simple metaphors of the pin-up. you think of it exploding in the eyes of the would-be rapist, or dripping down your shirt. one follows so quickly upon the other, these days. (you've been fetishized since you were six, so you roll up your skirt. does this look sexual to you? it does now. you make choices within your lack of consent. every run in your stockings is marked insubordinate in red pen. you're proud of it.)

(what a delightful word. you feel the lurch with every syllable, changes in the location of meaning, in the position of the tongue. in. sub. or. din. ate.)



back to the future: you pass a bar, and they're playing the church, under the milky way tonight, and you think of some hetero disco brit fagboy you used to know, and your life looks like a film. you stop to dance with your milk in your hand, and you wait for the wolves to come.