by Lauren Badillo Milici
Once, there was a girl who became
woman too fast, went peroxide blonde
in a kitchen sink, kissed lipstick red
across the collarbones of every man
in Los Angeles. No one ever asked
for this: draft of the script
where Norma Jean undoes herself, ear
pressed to the phone, listening for a sign.
Enter the smiling mortician & how
can you cut into something silk-woven,
so soft to the touch? We all wanted our own slice
of flesh, amber bottle of barbiturates. Not
your baby, but everybody’s. The whole world’s girl,
dead & dead & dead again. It’s all makebelieve,
isn’t it? Dream a little dream of me.
The Brentwood house burns, the Birthday Dress
is torn, & the Director says victim—
says you were bleach in high heels,
a nothing in black-and-white. Oh, please
don’t go—we’ll eat you up,
we love you so.
Lauren Milici is a Jersey-born, Florida-raised poet and writer based in the Midwest. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. She is the author of Sad Sexy Catholic from CLASH Books.