annora croon

Smoke Stains

I just want to get high in the evening

and touch myself.

My mother lingers outside my door

There’s a question on her lips– Is this the life I’m living?

Don’t I know there’s more than this?

Loud music, bad economy, cigarettes that stain my teeth

self destruction, my rebellion, I turn the rage internal.

The adult store calls to me like a new tattoo.

But so do my bill collectors on the phone my daddy pays for.

Late adolescence is still adolescence: I just hope my tits don’t grow in again.

Wash my dirty hair,

pretend this life is more than a temper tantrum.

They want me to join the rat race but the head rat wants my head on a platter.

And I’m not inclined to let that happen.

These days are numbered and I’ve been counting them down since I was born.

Just pray that when I’m gone they don’t notice the smoke stains.