Logen Cure


I don’t fantasize
that it didn’t happen.
I wish it made me
prim and distant,
the sort of girl
who never smokes,
never drinks herself
sick. Some girls
manage it, so
buttoned up,
their smiles
straight and pretty
as grandmother’s pearls.
Of course it happens,
that isn’t strange at all.
Some girls don’t turn feral;
their sharp red jaws
snap shut. I drag myself
starving, mad,
all ribs and claws, I don’t
believe anything I can’t
sink my teeth into,
flight is never an option,
I am fight-filled.
This is the fantasy:
a body quiet
as an empty house,
still like a bowl of peaches
ripening on a table.

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