Hot pink hydrangea tomb teenage, a cell
of swallowed bubblegum and rage. A door
I cannot lock to hide. A car they will
not allow me to drive. I’m stuck indoors
and in my head, but Henry Miller’s in
my bed, abreast of Faulkner, Tennessee—
write harlots, captives, sad, like me. Girl friend
in ink Joyce Carol Oates, empathy,
erotic anecdotes. Next year eighteen,
if I survive, hot pink, full bloomed but half
alive. I do my time with the Marquis
de Sade. He sees my jailhouse virtue, laughs
"you fraud." Compatriots in sheets hot pink,
you wet your prison blossom, on the brink.
My heart you hide in candlelight, a lust
to visit late at night. Steep steps of stone
you sneak below, discreet desire that’s just
your own. I contemplate you with my moans,
my touches, daylight, all alone. Across
a quilt of patchwork squares, imagined stalk
of feet on stairs. My pleasures count time lost,
my clock. I’m open when you turn the lock.
My thighs embrace you, bind you tight. Inside,
my hostage, through the night. Relentless pounds,
my ravishment replete. Captive denied
request to sleep. My hunger has no bounds.
I care nothing about your life outside;
a basement girl, by candlelight, you hide.
Descent is dilemma: you drown or swim,
a dunk in dark ocean, how you begin.
All swallow, choke and four tentative limbs.
Maternal terror’s milk, adrenaline.
Deep end with demons, gray dorsal fins—
What’s slow to adapt will quickly descend
to sepulcher seagrass decay, distend
then denouement, net, naked nightmare ascends.
Shell covered shore, wry refraction sequins,
flesh dots and laughter, waves, contact human.
Out of reach, beach, bevy beatific friends.
You’ll never get there. You’ll never fit in.
You cannot stop moving—cannot pretend
you’ll ever belong outside the deep end.
Perversion of philanthropy, his taint
of sociopathy. His million builds
a shelter, battered women, kids. A saint,
seersucker smile, whose dimpled photo gilds
wan walls, beguiles: a prince exists whose wealth
purchased a haven from abuse. It buys
me too — a stripper for misuse, a stealth
assault, verbal abuse, pigtails and cries
in straight back chairs, his monologues, champagne
nightmares, a stack of hundreds so I’ll stay,
his degradation Saturday. His reign,
contempt, constrained, strip club until one day:
"Could put you in a house" and I refuse
to be his sanctuary of abuse.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. In addition to Moonchild Magazine, her sonnets have stalked the pages of Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Drunk Monkeys, The Visitant, Neologism Poetry Journal, Occulum and many other publications. Her sonnet dollhouse chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press. Follow her socks and sonnets on Twitter @lolaandjolie.