Raw Girl Money

All us girls we agree to be big teen

islands scouring the slips for who came

closest. I tented my sour girl with boy-textured

leans from the could-have bin. Couldn’t let out

what lived in the back with all the trouble rubbing

at my tender. A girl’s sight becomes real

in the flee, her thrum of  identifying marks,

private seams, marbles of  fat for the pillage.

I meet myself at every mask collapse.

Like the old wounds slack on my hiddens I was

the danger I exchanged for my hair, the song

I rubbed against my song.