The boys, they call me Lolita.
They come to me with their dark hair and beautiful cheekbones.
They say ‘Lolita, baby. C’mon, hike that skirt up. Yeah, show me those stockings.’
‘Lolita, you kill me. Turn around sweetheart.’
‘Lolita, go and grab me a beer. You’re the best chaser I’ve ever had hunny, you taste like cherry soda straight from the shop.’
They know everything of my shaky, wandering hands, peppermint lips and olive skin
but nothing of my anxious soul; my love for 7-up, my eyes that cry salt.
The priest, the one with sins falling from his eyelashes, he tells me girls like me are not meant to be loved. We are candy, made to be devoured.
I go home and I put on a long t-shirt and I paint.
I paint the boys dirty hands, their cigarette lips and eager but dying eyes.
I do not tell them I make them into art, I don’t want to scare them away.
Girls like me, we have blood draining out our eyes. Desire hides in the crevices of our palms,
to us love is the color black.
Abbie Nielsen, For the Girls Who Have Been Used (viapassionandcoffeestains)