Suburban streets flash through
the car windows, giving the
impression that there might be
somewhere to stop and stretch
our legs, bare between the
hem of our skirts and the
top of our boots. Our
bodies, new at this, crave
alcohol the way a baby
craves its mother's breast -
like we can't live without it,
like it will help us go
to sleep tonight. We know
how good - how young - we look
and when we find a place
to go, we use this to our
advantage, yelling over techno
and letting strange boys
talk their hot beer breath
all over our glittering necks.
When they start acting like
their hard-earned money will
buy them more than drinks, we
move on, aware of the eyes
on our legs and our chests
and laughing because
we're young and pretty and
we have them all convinced that this
is where we want to be.