american girl.

she reminds him
that he never told her it was easy
as the rain hits the sidewalk in a purple-gray bruise

he asks if she’s ashamed
through a newspaper, in a voice tired but angry
a dusty orange voice

a wilting flower yawns; defiant hair shakes a loud “no”

and she asks why she ever would be;
thinks she’s better than that,

but she's nobody special.
another girl succumbed to the american rebellion…
another dye-stained sink, borrowed cigarette, dried-blood-on-a-razorblade girl.

another pink blossom fallen too soon from the tree of conformity
and picked up by somebody’s wet boot

(somebody with deft hands,
soft eyes)

and carried a few hundred miles back home.