My body’s made of shatters.

You ask me if I think humans look foreign as you leave rats heads and dead roses on my doorstep.

 

Those months where we went crazy with blood flavored religion.

 

Drumbeats like miles for answers.

 

The underworld in my brain tissue.

 

Heavenly angel give me chills like a broken pencil sharpener.

 

Oh, momma they keep messing with my head.

 

Oh, momma show me what I should do instead.

 

Is it my fault or the men’s that I’m beautiful in a dirty way?

 

You are a life and it’s fascinating she tells me.

 

But deep down I know

 

I’m all and only flat beer and fried nerve endings.

 

She tells me the blisters and begging will make modern divinity taste sweeter.

 

That my only god should be my higher self but percentages stain my teeth.

 

And I belong wherever terrorists and overly sexual babysitters go.

 

They’ll never get their daughter back.

 

She lost all her innocence when the Beatles started making her sad.

 

Or maybe when she realized a spoonful of sugar makes cheap wine go down.

 

Or maybe when she got in the habit of hearing I love you from four different men at the same time. I

 

hate to be the first to admit it but no amount of whiskey is going to help me figure out where we go

 

when we die.

 

No matter how many spoonfuls of anorexia I slurp I still have no god.

 

No amount of highs will stop the thoughts from intruding.

 

No amount of showers I take at a strangers house will get me clean.

 

I can’t help but wonder if I’ll corrupt under gray or gold.

Juliet Lauren in an eighteen year old emerging writer. Her work can be found in Gold Wake Live, SkyIsland Journal, and Ghost City Review. Her manuscript and poetry have also been recognized numerous times by the Scholastic Arts and Writing Awards. She currently resides in Florida and you can follow her on instagram at jadore.mon.amour

©2018 HighShelfPress.