She ran up to her room,
cried with her head on the pillow,
then threw up in the toilet.
Finally, she slept and dreamed
rutted roads, rotting barns,
and twilight bats she took
And then next morning,
she felt grubby hands on her,
middle aged men who leered from cars,
or old farmers with liver spots.
And she spat out all food.
It tasted of cardboard left in the rain.
And then she spent the afternoon
with the boy she really wished had made her pregnant.
They even kissed, tasted tongues.
He grabbed at her breast with that explorer's eagerness,
like it was the first time anyone was going there.
His kisses were like white chocolate,
sweet, but nothing that her stomach
hadn't heard before.
She longed to press her head against his chest
Or even better, open him up and retch inside.
Or open herself up
and free her guts of the rutted roads,
rotting barns, and those damn songbirds
that she knew too well were bats.
His hands were on her.
Maybe he'd devour her.
For wasn't she cardboard.
And didn't she lie out in the rain.
And for no reason other than
the rain spoke pretty, showed an interest paper-thin.