Nicole Steinberg



I like to think an oversized floral print
will make me a better person but it would
only confuse and destroy the others. Lady
bear, no one really gets to get the moon.
Like all of us, the tides are faking it,
drowning piles of embossed party invitations
in dismal dishwater. Seeking the ecstatic
pinprick that leads to the most meaningful
bloodletting of our lives. My jaw-drop pores
exude an envious bouquet. I spy the monster
snuffling beneath your chair and I want it
under mine. My stiletto is stuck in this
blood spatter pattern so they wind the crime
scene tape around me like one boss anklet.



I’m safest in the trunk
of a car when I don’t know
where it’s headed. Ask me
about PTSD, my nostalgia
for rap rivalries and powder
candy that gets all over
your hands. What will I find
embedded in my nail beds,
lurking fossils of things I saw
fit to scratch? We were the most
coveted dates to the debutante
wrecking ball. At the mall
they ran away from us and
they were smart to do it.



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