*.:｡ ✦* outside: music, the moon hanging low over our faces, girls smelling of tequila, knees bruised from the things they’d done to the boys on the other side of the house. there’s spit
in my hair, or maybe vomit; someone’s hand on my elbow to steady themselves. on the porch a haze of s m o k e surrounds the girls who clutch off-brand cigarettes between neat, painted nails. their l a u g h t e r like gold
wire, like the punchline after the joke. they’re all thinking about their next haircut, their protruding collarbones. how their legs look in the late s u m m e r heat. when they'll have to get up in the morning and walk ten blocks
back the other way, through ghettos and
men whistling on every street corner. when
they stare heavy-lidded into reflections of themselves through store-front windows and say please god let us be real.

— kristina haynes, party girls.