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The Do-You-Like-Me-Then-I-Like-You Panopticon

By Shannon Quinn From Issue No. 7

Little altars are everywhere

hordes of intentions for creeped gods

with their backpacks full of Coors Lite

crop tops & eyeliner. They stuff

our purses with five-dollar bills that smell

of our please-pick-me recycled shame.

It’s not nothing to know about this place

easy to see how a girl can feel

like a walking garbage can.

No coherent narrative here

in choosing one we fuck ourselves

or someone else.

The altars have nothing to do with us

someone else’s fetish.

We are forgot in that we are not who we were.

This is a test

see, now I can say

are-you-hurt & tell-me-what-to-do.

This is just a visit.

We knew that our girl-bodies were knives

& we never once thought to slit their throats.

That’s not nothing.

About Shannon Quinn More From Issue No. 7