Lean to the mirror, relax a second
your dress sticky and awkward in the heat:
 
you’ve become something
that’s less than sequins, better than decoration
 
but still hiding your bloodied (I know, I can tell)
face from your friends, not letting more   than
 
your grassy washed out blacklight
drum & bass hair into view–
 
still hide yourself & the confessions   not
yet dressed except in warmth of blacklight:
 
wrenched elbow to throat calico blotted bruises across your neck,
your messed cheeks,
 
I’ve wanted this for so long you and your warm
wet for my sheets come
 
& let me
kiss your split lip right open

Erica Yeager is twenty five and lives near one of those big cities brushing the Atlantic,
but not in one. She does not hate dogs at all. She once drank three Four-Loko type
drinks in the span of one night. Erica Yeager is still hungover.