it’s Monday morning my ass is sore & I KNOW why
I didn’t know then but I know now.
I can’t believe it’s not butter.
Gee your hair smells terrific.
All I ever wanted to be was Bobby’s girl
but it was never my party my prom my sock hop my goddamn cotillion.
I wasn’t Amy.
I wasn’t Heather.
I was Misti Velvet Rainwater, the easiest target for a thousand miles.
I could have been a flower but I was a girl.
The dead butterfly didn’t make it to heaven.
The burning moth made it as far as Ben Lomond.
I wanted to say SORRY but my mouth was full.
It’s 1975 and I’m in the wrong place at the right time.
There are only three channels and girl power hasn’t been invented yet.
I want to be Laura Ingalls or Kimberly Drummond or My Sharona.
My god time is spastic.
It’s 1983 and I’m cheering the singing puppets eating pizza in Wichita Falls.
It’s 1988 and I’m not a Dixie Doll or anything similar.
It’s 1990 and I’m not a pretty woman but the Prozac makes me think
I’m the hottest bitch since Ava Gardner.
It’s 2014 in Balcones Heights and I’m filing false rape charges.
Yes it hurt and I cried off my Maybelline but when it was over
he said, “We never have to do that again, sweetheart”
and I stayed and I stayed
and that
is the main thing.
Anyway. Get off my dick.
I went back to the station the next morning and retracted.
So fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me harder.
If you had walked a mile in my Capezios
you would know better than to dismiss me.
But you didn’t so kiss me harder than a teenage riot.
All the cool kids are doing it.
“it’s Monday morning my ass is sore & I KNOW why” is included in the forthcoming Super Cherry Extra, coming soon and available at the Underground Lit Fest in Toledo on November 7-8.
Misti Rainwater-Lites shuffles tarot cards to keep the lights on and scribbles lines and makes sick beats to maintain a semblance of sanity while melting from triple digit heat and menopause in San Antonio, Texas. She does it all for the nookie so you can take that cookie and shove it up your ass.
