How to Make it as a Vegas Showgirl
Get used to stares: watch us as you sketch
a Christmas tree on fire, then a pillow and
a photo of the ocean. Draw tiny dark flowers
all over your arms and belly with blood and ink.
Don't meet the eyes of your lovers, your parole
officer. See yourself as the center of a large,
wilting chrysanthemum. Dream you can't stand
up straight, that the soft round squish of your brain
is a boiling vat of perfume. Imagine what it means
to be a mother; on the curb outside the hostel,
hallucinate a warm bottle of milk in your hands as
your latest friend from McDonalds tips some instant
zen onto your tongue. Break your teeth, over and over,
on concrete and cars you refuse to admit are inedible.
Get used to stares: the more you move away, the more
the fire follows, catches in the lace of your hem, melts
the soles of your slashed black boots, until there is no
part of your body not in flames. Scribble daisies all over
the sheets and curtains before you use your lighter, before
you remember the other girls down the hall, the baby under your feet.