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.
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Author's Note
NaPoWriMo, Day 22.
Most fabulous and faved.
It is difficult to understand why it's taken this many views for someone to leave a comment.
Glad you like it, Jeffrey! My high view-count and low comment-count are because I link to these poems on Facebook and Twitter, but most of my friends/followers there probably don't have Fictionaut accounts.
An American Tragedy. Some of the images simply take the breath away, e.g., "blowing my nightdress to silhouette."
Big fav.
Thanks, Jack! I have to tell you that there's nothing American about it, though, what with me being an English girl in Scotland...
Beautiful.
Gorgeous--from form to that stunning last image. *