[untitled]

By Alex Sears


All of my friends killed themselves last Wednesday, and I wrote seven
villanelles. Not only about my sadness, but about the color of the
flowers at their memorial services, and what I was wearing as their
parents cried, clutching family photographs and stuffed bears. I also
wore polka dots when I last had an abortion. I drew a heart on my
calendar in permanent pen, and the nurse told me she loved my shoes
and matching handbag as she siphoned my unborn child. I sighed and
wondered, what do stilettos matter when you've lost your virtue in
someone else's clawfoot tub. But who doesn't get raped after bubble
baths are promised over Happy Hour. And it was likely what I was
wearing: pearls. You can't buy a rape kit at an art supply store, but
you can sometimes buy knitting needles, which I shoved down my throat
after cupcakes. I read that this is not a good idea, and then broke
up with my boyfriend after he accidentally pushed me into a china
cabinet. I wrote a sestina before calling my parents, who divorced
when I was three and disowned me because I occasionally enjoyed
sticking my fingers inside other girls in college.