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unpublished poem, © Phoebe Stuckes 2019, used by permission of the author.

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