1 poem by Rosie Accola

My mom never let me go to warped tour

 

I never take my eye makeup off.
My hair smells like smoke
to tell me,
“Rosie Jean you shouldn’t have gone to that dumb art school party”
I haven’t been sleeping
I have delegated domestic tasks to jagged unaccounted hours,
taking out the recycling at 2:37 or 1:35 A.M,

The porch is heavy with old rain
and i am heavy too.
I am stronger than u give me credit for
My heart’s 2 big for my body
and my body wants to fight me everyday.

I haven’t been sleeping
though I was taught to dream
of leering men cached in alleys.
I am no longer afraid of them.
When I do sleep,
my fists are clenched.
Sleep is the absence of vigilance;
I have learned to feel unwelcome
in places otherwise classified as home.
But it taught me how to be strong

So I get up
and I build something out of last nights eye makeup like 2007 Pete Wentz
and I scream at myself in public,
like all the emo boys I loved when I was 12.

When I was 14, I wrote in my diary that I wanted “friends to do punk things with”
Tonight, I threw a party for everyone I love.
I made cupcakes and single-handedly tried to fund Planned Parenthood with PBR sales
Precious brought her dog and Rachel bought one of the many jars of kinetic sand
that she recently impulse bought
someone did a lo-fi cover of “Allstar” by Smashmouth
A small part of me wished you could see me now,
in my velvet body suit with my lion hair and a real smile
but fuck
There’s always going to be people that I miss.
If this is existing, I’ll take it.