In eighth grade, she nailed on a pink shirt, a pale pastel
and felt exposed to the future. It had been years pulling it out
of the drain. She tied off a knit around the mess,
borrowed from her mother’s narnia. The wrapping and knot
with limp arms like a lioness carrying her cub. Her idol
graduated and visited, opened her flannel podshell:
“Look at these things!” Unripe cheeks, a glance
at the eyes in the plank, at slivers and cracks.
She felt as if I could pass through them, in the uncertain gait
of going backwards. Address it; the room that was pink.
A dream dollhouse after the hurricane of limbs,
teddybear called Queen, gum popping
walls, roses without thorns claiming the daybed,
Barbies given spikes, and dancing uniforms
stuffed at the top- stretching to the toes,
a dress of remains. It ran down the leg,
the tenth not-birthday; heart dropping, pinking at the drain.
They say grunge started with Cobain; it was us,
the ones who could feminize, pinken, and demystify blue.
Written by yelluw_always
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