Never was a Cornflake Girl – and neither was Claire.

They know, and they do it anyway 

The raisin girls and me at Denny’s 
with joints of shwag but 
without cell phones
and long hair and doc martens with her cheerleading uniform 
(didn’t she almost get kicked off the squad for that?) 
Fridays were pep rally day, Fridays 
were for hanging in the bathroom stall with your Marboro light from a pack that was less than two dollars. 
	
Maybe even a soft pack maybe even from a vending machine 
but probably from a guy at the gas station who didn’t care whether or not you were under age 
of course you were he 
knew 
he knew. 
He did it anyway.

Having to take off your doc martens and put on your stupid little white sneakers and get out there for the crowd,
("Load up on guns, bring your friends")

They watched you like you were a Heather spitting water and rinsed semen onto the mirror. 
But you were really Veronica.

Or maybe even J.D.

Fridays were for going out until your curfew 
maybe even getting away to the city. 
We had no idea what we were doing there. What a rush.

Inside us was someone in the school basement with a bomb, a girl spitting it out  
wondering
maybe he didn’t realize what he was doing. He’s just a kid like me.
Of course he knew.
He did it anyway. 

Excuses hang us like Jesus for years. 
Winter still comes and we don’t have mittens for our bleeding hands 
and they aren’t holding a Marlboro light. 

There aren’t enough years for them to make amends. There aren't enough tears to clean it out or saliva to spit it on the dirty mirror
nothing they can do to make it right. 

Once your hands are nailed in 
there’s nothing you can do.