It Was Your Fault
boys with pocket knives used to carve
their initials into the bark of trees; now they cut
into your flesh. pins sticking in,
a little plush tomato no one can eat;
your grandmother fixed the stitches
after a dare ripped your tube top off & stuffed it
into a bottle, sent out to sea—looking
for the razor in your candy, you forgot
your red solo cup & suddenly
you are an empty plate:
did you put on your coconut cream?
there is no seasoning
in the cupboards of sexual greed,
an oasis of free roofie where you forget
to count your drinks.
your legs were a fabric so silky
they couldn’t resist threading their bones in between.
thank your skeleton for hiding
beneath an ugly coat of paint
this weekend when the varsity swim team
decides you are not worth a $100 fee.
the pixie dust you loved at age five
was laced with a kiss & a sniff
sold your vulva to a group of lucky men.
their guns aimed straight for your head
as the sunlight washed in, all over your face:
you questioned the taste
of their holy communion, confirmed into the religion of pinned down
ecstasy, when broken eyelashes & irresistible drool scabbed your cheeks,
I heard you had to watch their brothers baptize at the sight of your shrunken torso, bent
over a composite of hairy legs & unkempt beards & lighthearted sin.
Jenna Murray is a junior at SUNY Geneseo studying English (creative writing) and communication (journalism & digital media). When she is not writing, she spends her time focusing on photography, music, and traveling. You can find her attempting to skateboard around Geneseo, or playing with her cat, Suki.