Julieanne Larick
Drug-Mart, Prom Queens, Glitter Eyeshadow Wannabe
I have something big, bold, beautiful to tell the silent streets.
Spark the dusty tire swings, caffeinate the delirious moms,
alight the brick Tudor homes, wrench a scream from the birds above.
I’ll rehearse with you. You have no choice but to
cover your eyes and fill your mouth with feathers.
Hear me out and I’ll set you free.
I am no longer a poet-glitter-eyelids-wannabe-aged-out-prom-queen
that you knew in roaring youth.
I grew into a liar-liar-pants-on-fire-gun-toting-big-nosed
freak, scrubbing my burnt legs with burnt sand,
removing every dead skin cell one by one,
taking a pistol to the suburbs, taking out every snake in my hair
one by one, writhing and smearing my eyelids with
cheap powder from the Wooster, OH Drug-Mart,
hoping it was a haven, that I would
appear on the ghastly floors under the fierce lights.
I observed other poet-glitter-eyelids-wannabe-aged-out-prom-queens except
they weren’t freaks, wannabes—they were guarded dolls
loved by the delirious streets, loved by the birds, by the people.
I boiled and seethed, smoked seeing them in happy epochs,
I, the big-nosed freak, yearning for loveliness before it drained out,
wanted to be lovely so I waxed my caterpillars with beeswax
softened my hands with 99-cent frosting.
That’s my message for the dusty tire swings, delirious moms,
white tudors, birds,
who saw me as poet-glitter-eyelids-wannabe-aged-out-prom-queen
at 16, and see me as a killer,
feeling lovely for eternity on cheap linoleum floors.
Spark the dusty tire swings, caffeinate the delirious moms,
alight the brick Tudor homes, wrench a scream from the birds above.
I’ll rehearse with you. You have no choice but to
cover your eyes and fill your mouth with feathers.
Hear me out and I’ll set you free.
I am no longer a poet-glitter-eyelids-wannabe-aged-out-prom-queen
that you knew in roaring youth.
I grew into a liar-liar-pants-on-fire-gun-toting-big-nosed
freak, scrubbing my burnt legs with burnt sand,
removing every dead skin cell one by one,
taking a pistol to the suburbs, taking out every snake in my hair
one by one, writhing and smearing my eyelids with
cheap powder from the Wooster, OH Drug-Mart,
hoping it was a haven, that I would
appear on the ghastly floors under the fierce lights.
I observed other poet-glitter-eyelids-wannabe-aged-out-prom-queens except
they weren’t freaks, wannabes—they were guarded dolls
loved by the delirious streets, loved by the birds, by the people.
I boiled and seethed, smoked seeing them in happy epochs,
I, the big-nosed freak, yearning for loveliness before it drained out,
wanted to be lovely so I waxed my caterpillars with beeswax
softened my hands with 99-cent frosting.
That’s my message for the dusty tire swings, delirious moms,
white tudors, birds,
who saw me as poet-glitter-eyelids-wannabe-aged-out-prom-queen
at 16, and see me as a killer,
feeling lovely for eternity on cheap linoleum floors.
Biography
Julieanne Larick (she/her) is a Midwestern double Best of the Net-nominated poet. She has work published in perhappened mag, Blue Marble Review, The B’K, and more. Julieanne reads prose for GASHER Journal and manages The Dodge's social media. She also edits fiction for jmww Journal. Julieanne tweets @crookyshanks. Find more of her work at http://www.julielarickwriting.com.
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