I went to catch a wave with my local librarian.
The sun was smiling, like I’d told a joke,
and I was glad to be lost in the crowd.
Tsunami of girls, all locked inside of our assigned roles,
the fathers of fascism storm the streets,
but they fear femininity,
how it weakens men,
makes them indecent and unkind.
I am a woman,
and I am poisonous.
I enjoy it.
I will destroy them all,
and I know they’ll let me,
that must be why they fear me,
so I stay out of sight,
until I’m ready to attack,
the sand and the foam of the sea are safe from wandering, weak eyes.
Boys must not look at girls on the beach.
They only see us on their beds, after rushed, unwelcome weddings,
on our knees in dark alley ways, when we could not run fast enough.
Nobody says no to boys, these days,
except the girls on the beach,
and even then,
we only say “más tarde”,
because we know that relenting is inevitable, and our only means of survival.
It is time for revenge.
The moon calls to me,
and I stalk the streets she shines upon.
Me and my girls gather on sandy shores,
bodies glistening in the glow of the girlish, gleeful moon,
sweet and tempting like candy,
but full of razor blades, to render trick or treaters helpless.
I’m a deviant,
defying every man that crosses my cursed path,
enticing them with delights that they’ll never have,
inviting them to take a bite and taste death.
I am the daughter of María Helena.
I scare them, until their bones are bare,
just by being unavailable and uninterested,
so they circle the beach, like vultures,
waiting for a moment when I am vulnerable,
but it never comes,
because I am a woman,
and I am poisonous,
and I show weakness for no-one.
I’ve told them and told them,
I’m saving myself for marriage,
but right now, my ring finger belongs to God.
You can catch me when the waves are high,
when the water is warm,
when all the girls on the segregated sand are wearing the same knowing smile as the sun,
and the moon, when she comes,
but don’t look too long,
because boys are known for having their eyes burn down to nothing,
when they look at girls on the beach.
I think boys would look so much nicer,
with no eyes,
don’t you think?
Boys that never go home.
Boys that pay for their sins.
Lonesome boys, lost at sea,
bloated and bright blue.
Unrecognisable. Unremarkable, as ever.
The mad mermaids would like to play.
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