i grew up in the ugliest way

i start out
small. it's like this:
little boy tells me he can’t touch
my lips through the blue
plastic on top. i freeze my
sugar in a dark room and
no one can get in--the babies
come out screaming for their
locust and sahara breast. i get
older. estrogen ferments in my
chest, and they come with wet and glossy mouths,
they suck with greed and 
canker sore lips. 
their drool drips like
the delirium of cream soda
in the summertime.
i get older
again. i weave
through cicadas with the apostles
of my hips, and with the
blush inside my
mouth i dance atop 
tree bark that is kindling 
a fire.
i grow into
a chipped statue. big boys toss in
dollars, i say they can
touch my wrists for
all of the copper in the world,
but i can't truly breathe through
the garden of their lechery. smoke
settles onto me and tastes
like the perfume of my ovaries:
all toxic and noxious
inculpating the marrow and cocaine
that boyhood gives way to. 
beneath the light of the moon
i grind the horn of a rhino
into ugly, junkyard stardust while
the waterfall runs red
with krill and urine and kisses.
i get older. the plastic melts. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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