This one is for all the mean girls,
Borgias in lip gloss
who whispered and giggled in cliques
(Did she get dressed in the dark?)
when I passed, all cowlicks and braces and zits.
The poreless Draculas commanding wolf packs
of girl minions who chased me
like a plague of Jean Naté harpies
penning fake love notes from guys I craved.
This poem is for thirteen-year-old Satans allowed to wear makeup,
who suffered not the indignity of
eyeliner in a bathroom stall,
hunched over a compact,
then the mad dash to cold cream it off
and still catch the bus home,
eyes red and dripping black.
(Has she been crying?)
The evil girls who chiseled me down,
wound me up like the time
I wore big rings on each finger
just in case I had to berserker
out of a fight with head bitch Cindy.
This poem is for the sleepover sadists
who put my hand in warm water
hoping I, unconscious, would pee my blankets.
Who sneered at my bag lunches
jeered my student council speeches
leered at my chest as we dressed for gym
(Don’t you think she stuffs?)
the Hitlers who tripped me at the science fair
so my carefully dyed cauliflower brain
lobes rolled under the bleachers.
Thank you. I mean it.
Who would I be without your casual malice
forcing phoenix me out of the forge
of scorn and social suicide when you
torqued my head over a confessional of toilet
where I waited to be shrived?