By K. R. Taylor

that girl was horrible 
and nasty 
and god awfully ugly

             she let him hold her hand, 	
             let him tell her she was beautiful, 
             then went home 	and scrubbed him off 
             until she could paint the mirror with her blood

she ruined her mother’s recipe books 
by covering ingredients with black ink
and spent her father’s child support checks on therapy copayments 

             she howled at bathroom bowls 
             and stropped her skin at night
             and proved she had a set of lungs during family dinner

she could hold her books 
with the bags under her eyes 
and could reopen old wounds 
with a    couple     of   words 

             she had dust on the bible 
             gifted by her grandmother 

                          and used          love   letters    as   coasters
                          to watch the     lost    lovers’    ink      bleed 
                          until words were 	no longer words

             she let boys read her poetry 
             and broke their wrists 
             when they looked at her like a sick dog

she let boys reach between her knees 
just to hear them say they loved her
                          when they didn’t she broke the rose vases 
                          and stomped on the broken glass with bare feet

             she doused her favorite people and their bridges 
             in gasoline   	           and lit her favorite matches

                                          then let her mother scream at her 
                     for making the house smell like burning wood

that girl was horrible 
and nasty 
and god awfully ugly

and she was fifteen 
             and grappling with grief 
             and didn’t know to be anything 

but angry