Homage to Dirt, Rage, and Girlhood
It’s different when the birds are circling, picking at your eyes. You’re Medusa, you’re buried. You know all these women scorned. Hell hath no fury like a girl denied heaven.
Dinosaur cries of the birds in the night, you think of Edgar Allan Poe. Oh your soft, girl, goth heart. Trying to understand what they’re saying to each other, refusing to believe it’s just noise. All the mopey ones, the romantics, the writers with neurosis tattooed on their foreheads that spoke to the dark birds and soliloquised their hidden languages. ‘Help’ is a cry, and so is ‘hello’. Listen to them shrieking in the dawn.
Mitski wants you to turn pink in the night but you prefer when she’s yelling
Little girls with their made up tales of terror, the most fucked up concoctions
Little girls playing make-believe with horror movie icons, playing unicorns but bloody and foul
Little girls tearing the house down, temper tantrum, there’s something feral about refusing to cut your hair off. Rapunzel, yeah? Except she’s got dirt all streaked through the blonde. Except she won’t take a shower. Except she’s daddy’s little princess screaming bloody murder and her feet are cracked from the hot pavement outside, dirty fingernails, that unselfconscious gap between the teeth after the last bone’s been yanked out for a dollar. Cinderella with the Head of Medusa, girlhood and rage the fairytale. Yeah, girls are just like that, nobody ever says girls will be girls unless we’re being vapid, but maybe we’re just being vapid to escape the rest of it. I wouldn’t mind a bit of a magazine binge if it meant not having to listen to the goddamn list of rules any longer. You know? Wearing the skirt in exchange for learning to handle scissors. Grow up fast and listen to your mother’s intimate traumas. Take it on, all of it, learn to carry it on your back, the little trash hag from the Labyrinth, bet she was a fucking lady once. Wear pants or whatever, that’s fine, it’s only okay if you’re white and thin and fuckable too. Remember being a little girl and slicing your knees raw on the pavement? You cried like a wolf howls because you were allowed to. Cry now on each other’s shoulders because it’s strength and weakness hand in hand, you’ll never be taken seriously but at least you’re not going fucking crazy. Sure. But crying is too close to screaming anyway. They’re practically interchangeable. I rarely meet a woman who doesn’t already think she’s halfway insane. Little girls always think they’re the weirdos.
The world is too small for people with hands like yours. Can you imagine opening up a plot of dirt just to lie in it? Just to bury yourself below the noise. As above so below and all that jazz, but can’t you find some way to the middle and take off running?
No. Of course not. Just keep picking at the dirt with those grubby hands of yours. Someday, somewhere, someone ought to make a wife of you after all.
Dinosaur cries of the birds in the night, you think of Edgar Allan Poe. Oh your soft, girl, goth heart. Trying to understand what they’re saying to each other, refusing to believe it’s just noise. All the mopey ones, the romantics, the writers with neurosis tattooed on their foreheads that spoke to the dark birds and soliloquised their hidden languages. ‘Help’ is a cry, and so is ‘hello’. Listen to them shrieking in the dawn.
Mitski wants you to turn pink in the night but you prefer when she’s yelling
Little girls with their made up tales of terror, the most fucked up concoctions
Little girls playing make-believe with horror movie icons, playing unicorns but bloody and foul
Little girls tearing the house down, temper tantrum, there’s something feral about refusing to cut your hair off. Rapunzel, yeah? Except she’s got dirt all streaked through the blonde. Except she won’t take a shower. Except she’s daddy’s little princess screaming bloody murder and her feet are cracked from the hot pavement outside, dirty fingernails, that unselfconscious gap between the teeth after the last bone’s been yanked out for a dollar. Cinderella with the Head of Medusa, girlhood and rage the fairytale. Yeah, girls are just like that, nobody ever says girls will be girls unless we’re being vapid, but maybe we’re just being vapid to escape the rest of it. I wouldn’t mind a bit of a magazine binge if it meant not having to listen to the goddamn list of rules any longer. You know? Wearing the skirt in exchange for learning to handle scissors. Grow up fast and listen to your mother’s intimate traumas. Take it on, all of it, learn to carry it on your back, the little trash hag from the Labyrinth, bet she was a fucking lady once. Wear pants or whatever, that’s fine, it’s only okay if you’re white and thin and fuckable too. Remember being a little girl and slicing your knees raw on the pavement? You cried like a wolf howls because you were allowed to. Cry now on each other’s shoulders because it’s strength and weakness hand in hand, you’ll never be taken seriously but at least you’re not going fucking crazy. Sure. But crying is too close to screaming anyway. They’re practically interchangeable. I rarely meet a woman who doesn’t already think she’s halfway insane. Little girls always think they’re the weirdos.
The world is too small for people with hands like yours. Can you imagine opening up a plot of dirt just to lie in it? Just to bury yourself below the noise. As above so below and all that jazz, but can’t you find some way to the middle and take off running?
No. Of course not. Just keep picking at the dirt with those grubby hands of yours. Someday, somewhere, someone ought to make a wife of you after all.
Finding your beautiful writing has made my day, it's so powerful
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