Bad Girls Club
How could you really know yourself
if you’d never had that fake hair extension
ripped from the back of your head,
in the car park of the big Tesco
some time in the Spring of 2010,
the scrap of synthetic lace in your thighs
already stained with blood, already
too fat for your cutoffs, and a girl
called Jessie, the most frightening
and gorgeous being you had ever seen.
unpublished poem, © Phoebe Stuckes 2019, used by permission of the author.