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.