The eighties 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.