Kristin Garth


I play these same games since I turn eighteen.
The rules evolve in ways I don’t choose.
Each time I say daddy things becomes more extreme.
I find a way to retain innocence to lose. 

I spread my legs for cameras, on stage.
Still I cannot look these men in their eyes.
My birthday does not reflect my mental age. 
They call me on apps to make me cry. 

I hide my pastel knives near my Barbie dolls —
pink walls requested with the reddest of welts. 
I swallow anything that will keep me small. 
I suffocate doubt with a tight leather belt. 

After they cum, I pretend to be numb, 
a hard candy shell over bubblegum. 

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