Daddy’s Little Monster

I can never have slurpees from 7-
Eleven without seeing Em’s pockmarked
face hidden inside crystals. Or bruises
on bananas that made lame excuses.

Miles told me his smile is a vacant
snowglobe. But I didn’t know what that meant
until I sat in Mel’s Diner with green
wasabi on my fingers tracing coeurs

on the paper tablecloth. My giallo
keychain simpered back at me mirroring
his power that I used to derive on
my TI-83 calculator.

Rinoa exclaimed he is such a git!
And in my gut I knew she was right. Add
bong water soaked hands to Hitachi wands
for the perfect boy to take home to dad!

I tried to forget the Greyhound bus rides
and my almost empty piggy bank but
seeing tie dye shirts bring about countless
paralyzing flashbacks. They demand late

night booty calls dripping pomegranate
but zero heat that you’d get with cayenne.
I told her I wanted someone edgy,  
like that matchbook we found in your Prius.

But he couldn’t be called edgy. He more
closely resembled slogan tees from Hot
Topic that said “Daddy’s Little Monster”
but had a razor blade hidden inside.


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