When I Grow Up; Or, Why Teenagers Shouldn't Listen to Angst-Rock

by Kirsty Logan

my teen dream:

            hotel as home, insomniac trips

            through halls carpeted with quiet.

            pills rainbowed in strangers' coats, keys

            to forgetfulness. wardrobe of tutus and tiaras,

            bones bruising skin.


the blurb would say:

            rockstar, moviestar, literary

            supernova — burning out before

            all the planets are declassified.

            club 27 is for the elderly and nobody will

want an ex-nymphet.


at the climax:

            the roof, grit-floored, and wind

            blowing my nightdress to silhouette.

            toes gripping the ledge, I tilt to the sky

            so sure that my wings, muscle-dense and fluffed white,

            will open.