had a depressing element of missing girls with their hair parted
down the middle who would never come home. Anguished parents.
I had the sort of parents who warned against getting into cars
with strange men & wearing cosmetics too young, a come hither
odor. Clifford Olsen a household name in horrific bedtime stories
of strangled teens, don’t take candy from anyone, razorblade
apples. The price for being a girl was to always look over one
shoulder while riding your bike, to never go in the woods alone.
Photographs of weeping women, shredded clothes & the bloodstain
of rape in the air like metal. I saw their faces in my dreams
at night – they whispered, “Be careful.” I grew
eyes in the ridges of my shoulder blades, fine-tuned instinct.
The dead girls gave me a mask of indifference, to hide the adrenaline
scent of fear that I might be a crusader. It has made me hard.
This archetype is dangerous to predators – the cold expression
of the huntress before the weapon is fired.