this a teenage wasteland;
bottles strewn like corpses on a battlefield,
friends hold knives behind tennis skirts,
and boys are chess pieces, moved to fit a game.

so forget sweetness and smiles, darling.

allow the wickedness in through the front door,
and ask it to wipe it’s shoes on the way in.
sin until your lungs fill with smoke
and your tongue tastes candy sweet.

for you’re a teenage queen:
tiara askew on hair sprayed locks,
terror dripping from manicured nails,
and poison glossing those picture perfect lips.
you’ll have the world one way or another,
and you’ll make them bleed.