In the Year of the Barbie Movie
Waking up, soft black liner, bite of toast; tying
the world outside in ribbons. Flowers shoved
in gunshot wounds, climbing the walls with fury. Slut,
says a spiking grin, below the
ceilings see through, above the louboutin soles like
wine moons. Ordering woman on woman on woman, piled up in
wedding cake tiers, our blood
poured over ice and served to the cats with the
cream and the keys to the treasury.
x
We paint our nails pink and can’t say clit on camera,
yet the smug, sharp, slick suit across the
road imagines what’s under the ubiquity.
x
Hand in hand in hand, walking through
tight streets full of laughs and excuses,
pulling satin down till it covers the
tops of our thighs, what does that mouth do,
pretty thing? Funny you should ask,
x
this mouth is the same that opened wide to
scream, the moment my mother split apart to give me the earth;
this is the same mouth that spits out sugared words
on command, some typecast typewriter full of
what you’ve wanted to hear, this is the mouth that
swears she’ll never be a secret and this is the
mouth that hides in backstage closets, too, this is the mouth
that curls around honey-blonde sobs in movie theatres, that oh-so witty, clever mouth
that holds stars and comets between her teeth, and
tears your nights to shreds. This is the mouth that belongs to
x
the year of the dollface, the sugartits, the good girl;
the one that fears for the year of the text me when you’re home, of the vigils and vengeance,
because, my mouth cries, in the year of the woman,
why are we still icing-sugar ashed and scattered through gravestones?
x
My Love of 10 Months, My Girl of 10 Years
i will give you all my coke can tabs, and all my
most affectionate smiles. you buy me dresses
of rust and pomegranate and tie them with
wired headphones and love songs.
my girl, the softest part of me, three taps on
sleepy shoulders in a bed too small – feathered in the half-
night, i can press myself to you and never
have to run.
x
facing your video camera eyes and stroking your
hair, i meet your friends too early in a cotton slip, drinking
cherry sours. you wait in every crowd, every
song i sing you’ll finish the line; i can see
us blurred on balconies in the 7am rays,
weak tea and biscoff on
toast. no caption needed; art in comfort. you muddle
the boys and the mint leaves,
drinking cocktails, a december grin, dripping secrets till they’re cracked and
open, my girl, a chip off my hip bone.
x
a turquoise lover in a wes anderson t-shirt, we
colour your hair too late and swim
in water that makes us pale. we burn the
bridge of our noses and stargaze smelling
of sweat and cider. two halves of a clementine,
no one is as good for me, nothing about you burns.
my girl, my coffee ice-cream, my knotted hair,
my never-kissed, my always-wanted-too, my
fake freckles, my heavy liner, my muse, my moon, my mouth,
my heart.