pretty boys / party girls
A chaotic balance of concussion and adrenaline,
near transcendent blend of the divine:
a demon’s medicinal drink, an angel’s liar.
The reaching of a vagrant to immortal grounds
– a prayer.
These immortal grounds speak,
“Wear your crowns!
O knights deemed weak and damsels bleak.”
{ Princes and paupers } can both be pretty,
[ princesses and prudes ] can both be bitchy,
as though “pretty” and “bitchy” are the only
appellations we apply as accolades,
to sort the red plastic cups
from the glass bottles rimmed in cherry red chapstick.
Pretty girls are diamond chokers,
shots of glitter by the smoke stained windows,
diaries burned at the corners.
“The Maidens Have Gone Mad,”
“Better to be heartless than naive”
the party girl sings.
She sings:
“He is made of gold,
of italics and bold.
He is pretty boy,
he is shiny new toy.
The girls wear flowers
and the boys play games,
so why do I throw their names
like they’re darts
and he’s a bullseye?
I’m aiming,
won’t miss,
cuz he’s pretty boy,
he’s bubblegum kiss,
minty mist.
He’s butterfly king,
VHS Lord,
Puck of my midsummer dream.”
And the party girls were the faeries
who once roamed these forest mounds,
these veiled, sacred grounds.
Before red ink pens crossed them out at the thighs,
filled their wombs with vinegar lies,
and idle dreams of pretty boys playing kings.
But of course it is all for play…
until the party becomes a
GUN,
a showdown borne of seasons of oppression.
A blessed trauma it is then
to dwell on the outside —
To leave this pity party, bloodbath beginning behind…
Behind in a haze of dreams shattered beneath the table.
Glass in our palms, bullets in our throats.
The sirens scream, but we are silent,
fallen notes.
