Girl(s) With the Nervous System of a Prey Animal
“A teenage girl is just another sort of game bird.”
-Sarah Barber
For those who are as soft (and still
frozen) as a porcelain bunny or doll, ribboned up
with lace, desecration, lip gloss and rage. You were born to be
gentle, lovergirl, full of glitterglue—pink and raw. I know you can’t help
but startle when the toast springs or flinch when someone gets
too close on the sidewalk. I know you want to fertilize your fight
or flight faster than a racing waterfall runs from the cliff
it’s connected to, the same way I always am running
from my body despite it still being attached to me. Be careful
trusting the moon to fix his lack of guilty conscience, it only turns him more
wolfish when he sees you. But remember, there are fuck-you-
flowers that bloom at every edge and crease of your skin, blue bruises
blossoming into contempt, lace that stitches itself into downy
wings to prove your angelness, ascend and dance
with the air, but you haven’t been taught
how, only been left with seam-splitter-mouths
that clip these feathers and stitch you up with rough-
sewn horns. This is no more flight.
On Kindness
We have both met one day inside
the forest with rotted maws, round
ears that don’t care for cries.
Jagged paws, eclipse your sun-filled
face, summer breeze as bated as your
breath filling brutalized lungs, swept
along the dirt by filthy claws. My
body is rag dolled, face blank, eyes
now vacant as this creature scratches at
battered skin. Bloodied fangs pick at
discarded flesh—you attempted to
ward him off: wave your arms, stand
tall, put your bag on your head.
It doesn’t help, just makes those teeth hate
me more. I know I’m helpless, but I have been
spared more mercy than I ever hoped.
the cheapest bar; you come to.
Up the tab, claw at
his back—to feel
muscles underneath, take it to the
chest, take in smoke, strayed
away from the path, pulled
form, piled up while this
closed door is locked (disoriented),
my spleen, spuming out of
a momentary meal, on the hunt for
escape, to fight back, to lash out—
for yourself, this is easy, be rabid,
(I think that’s what they say.) Kill.
us, and I’ll let you hurt
me for longer than you have been,
And it never did me much good.
Sierra Hixon is a senior creative writing student at Salisbury University planning to pursue an M.A. on a creative writing track with a focus in poetry. She has been published in Slipstream, the Scarab, and more.