ruptured abecedarian of a teenage girl -- poetry by Gemma Hayes

at nine years old i noticed that gunshots sound more like fireworks than super soakers

azure, sage, aquamarine. they say those are the prettiest your eyes can get

but the ones dead girls have seem to whisper all the same

and i have never gone to

church but maybe if god could see me kneeling on the pews, just for him

he would repent on my behalf

dawn is only as far away as i think it is. if i ashed one hundred cigarettes,

i wonder if it would shape my shadow

elegy to the hard working women of our country! paint another flag-red stripe

wherever you want; you are still worth eight cents less

fairytales are what you have tricked yourself into living for: monopoly money

(remember: your birthmark shaped like a star does not mean you belong here)

gravel starts to taste good when the driveway is full of it.

trust me, i know, i’ve tried — have been trying

how many times can my voice crack in the eighth grade play before i give up?

too many. the audience only cares about opening night

i am thankful for the middles of the nights i wake up in a sweat imagining your hot breath

kiss my forehead, turn me primal in that cherub way

just know that all mirrors lie, but the ones at the carnival will prove to you what you are.

“truly being” and “perceived as” are antonyms in the feminine diagnosis

keep up. the waves are rising and that cotton candy life jacket is not going to save you

the scale steps on me and not the other way around

listen, i didn’t always think men were bad, but the little girl in the elsa costume knew

baby, what the hell is your problem?

maybe if my platinum hair had never turned brown i would accomplish greater things

or maybe it is the fact that i didn’t cry when you died, just the day after

nice girls learn how to pretend like they haven’t been ordained

how many baptisms were scams?

on sundays i like to sit in the bath and keep my head under the soapy water for just long enough

and his hands feel more like wet band-aids than leeches then

parental advisory label but i’ve been wearing lacy underwear since middle school

did you want me then, with teeth still missing?

quilted blanket on hospice bed. yes, it’s me, gramma. no, you live in michigan now. yes, i am sorry you feel trapped.

a broken clock is right twice a day, but you are angry all the time

rhinestone tears — collect them, quick! natural artifacts of womanly stereotypes sell well.

what is art if not the most honorable detainment?

still, the pills from three days ago lie on your desk amongst dry mascara wands

lick the sugar off of their capsules; leave the innards stale on your fingers

those same fingers i use to count the seconds, the ones i hold in my hands like heavy stones,

let myself be the one to do it: do something

understand that heat flattening my hair makes me warmer than my father’s hug

but it doesn’t burn more than vodka in a ceramic mug

vermillion pools on the bathroom floor, it expands, it ridicules, it is blurry

is it the petals of the rose he gave me on our second date

when did father forget to put down the bottle?

how it could have once been you he refused to put down

x-ray says my bones have always been broken

concealer cannot hide the bruises

youthful hair made of rosemary, skin of tissue paper

handle with care and trim the stems

zero seconds before and zero seconds now

i was always made of clay

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Gemma Hayes is a 17-year-old poet living in New York City with her family and two cats. She hopes she can connect with young writers and feelers like herself through her poetry. A National Silver Medalist in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Gemma has previously been published in the Blue Marble Review, has studied at the Kenyon Review Young Writers' Workshop, and will attend the Iowa Young Writers' Studio this summer.