I dream of stick figure girls sneaking into soirees
waltzing in on silent stilletos, unsettlingly aware of narrow frames in Ralph Lauren

Mascara bruises stamp each ringlet of our neural spine
Stepping and stumbling to the unrhymed parody of scraped bones and melting flesh that makes our scars sing in a rich baritone

We took turns encasing our sullied lips around the rim of a dime-store Bacardi
Palliating the throbbing of our vena cava with blood and rum

Reaching up on the toes of cherry tinted converses to strip the moon bare with nothing but our brittle fingernails and wine stained teeth

I dream of stick figure girls sneaking out of soirees
smoking thin wisps of narcotics, unsettlingly aware of their ebbing sanity