I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

She is
faded blue jeans
with holes in the knees
a ***** white t-shirt
covered in mustard stains and engine grease
on any given Saturday

She is
black fingernail polish on a Tuesday
because she wants people to wonder
short skirts in church
to make the choir boys’ minds wander

She is
jealous of the girl who has
the boy she didn’t want
the lies she tells her friends
about the guy she hasn’t slept with yet
misplaced like lost money
unexpected, but refreshingly so

She is
a tongue piercing that she got when she was ******
that she takes out around authority figures
‘cause her parents do not know
the mistakes she will evidently make
as she will learn and grow
eventually going to tell them the truth
maybe

She is
trying to make you uncomfortable
just to see you squirm

She is
intelligent, and strong in her demeanor
throwing off the curve in all her classes
expelled for kicking some cheerleaders’ *****
in love with her history teacher

She is
poetry that breaks all the rules
the girl all the bad guys want
but won’t admit to
a guilty pleasure

She is
all of the above
none of it
and more

It was supposed to be fun.

New school, new supplies,
Thin, neon highlighters glowing inside
Vera Bradley backpacks.

Skinny folders assigned to
Pointless subjects,
Which would be fattened
With pointless homework
By the end of the day.

It was supposed to be fun,
And for a little while, I forgot.

I forgot until History.

The new teacher hadn't lived here
Longer than a week,
Which was why he was
Excited
About teaching.

He had on a brand new tie
From Banana Republic
Which was obviously tied
By his wide eyed fiance.

His classroom was bare, as he explained,
"Don't worry,
I ordered posters yesterday."

The teacher wasn't the problem.

The problem was,
Between Richardson
And Roberts,
He still existed.

At least in the school system he did.

"Ashley Paulette?"
"-Here."
"Abby Richardson?"
"-Here."
"Bennett Rill?"

And my life shattered all over again.

The silence felt
Deafening.

Remembering how he wouldn't be there.
Not ever.

"Bennett Rill?"

The teacher was confused, looking around the room
For someone
Who was buried six feet under.
Someone who the teacher might've thought
Was sick, or vacationing.

It was supposed to be fun.
But then I remembered

It's an urgent emergency
We're out of Vanilla Cake