8/6/2017 2 Comments Poetry by Kristin GarthPINK PLASTIC HOUSES The house you buy at 25 is pink and four feet tall. Twilight Wal-Mart purchase, you make with cash you mine from men who think it’s all pretend. The pigtails and nervous titter they believe to be a put-on the five-inch heels, an ache they think you fake to take their money. Shake for them till dawn and buy a plastic puppy, plates heart-shaped to set a tiny table meant for two. And it’s just you, in knee socks, hover high above three stories with something new to sate the child inside you can’t deny. A plastic house you furnish with pink dreams, a woman child, exactly what you seem. DIRTY You want me dirty as you see, the out to match the in of me. I tell you all the filth inside, each evil deed and doubt, each cock I ride. My baby face, they fall for fast, those other ones who never last. They wouldn't do the things you do, to hold my cheek beneath their shoe. They'd be aghast to watch me crawl, deride your cruel control. They don't know me at all. They buy the lie of how I look. A princess face, a cry mistook. Don't talk to me; don't ask me why I cannot breathe at times and want to die. You see in me all the others I've hurt. You're not afraid to put me in the dirt. Bio: Kristin Garth is a poet/novelist from Pensacola, Florida. In addition to Anti-Heroin Chic, she has published poetry in Quail Bell Magazine, Infernal Ink, Mookychick, Digging Through The Fat, No Other Tribute, an anthology. Follow her at twitter.com/lolaandjolie
2 Comments
Natashia Smith
8/8/2017 06:51:01 am
Kristin,
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Natashia Smith
8/8/2017 06:54:56 am
Sorry for my mistake. I meant Pink Plastic Houses, in the reply above.
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