Four Poems by Chelsea Coreen

Photo Credit: Trent Alan Morris

Photo Credit: Trent Alan Morris

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THE PATRON SAINT OF DRUNK GIRLS AT HOMECOMING DANCES

She is a stained glass meteor. A frenzy
of dust. She is a plastic slow dance.
Slides a flask of vodka down the front
of her strapless dress. She dares the chaperones
to catch her.            Their nets and firefly jars.
Twirls around the gymnasium in red
stilettos. Laughs a hurricane
of glitter. She laughs until she doesn’t.
The bass pulses a somersault
lullaby. The boy’s hot
tar against her hips. Her body is
a fluorescent pit. She forgets
until she remembers.
She is a flip-switch banshee, a chapel
full of lightning. All eggshell and fist.

 

 

UGLY

You shower while he sleeps.
Flick on the ceiling fan,
let the water run cold.

It’s better for your skin,
says the magazine.
You wash your face

with a thick scrub that smells
like peaches. Organic,
like a body.

It hasn’t Photoshopped the red stains
from your chin, but it’s expensive,
and you’ve heard these things

take time. You exfoliate
your stomach, your thighs,
that’s the trick.

Shave each inch of leg
while the conditioner hangs
limp for five minutes.

Timing is everything.
You step onto the bathmat,
but don’t turn the water off,

just in case.
You don’t want him
to get suspicious.

Lotion first, then a layer
of beige paint, then fluff
the powder on top.

Thin the mascara
mixed with a little saline,
brush gently.

Nude lipstick.
You’re good at this.
He doesn’t know

he’s never seen
your real face.
He doesn’t have to.

 

 

HE SAYS I’VE GOT A KILLER BOD

Manic little firework.
Cracked blonde bombshel-
ter.  So hot with your screwdriver
manicure. Your candlelit slaughter.
Rust muck baby, always running
that chainsaw mouth. Always
curling up cyclone. Grease fire
heart, love slick murder. Queen
of grit. Broken bottleneck
smile. So hot with the lit
match between your teeth.
So hot with the legs
like thick knives.

 

 

MANIC PIXIE VOICEMAIL

Do you remember the airplane?
How the oxygen masks fell
from the ceiling? Do you ever wish
you could fly? I mean,
do you miss me?

 

 

Chelsea Coreen lives and writes in New York, New York. She is a poet, feminist and sparkle-enthusiast originally from upstate New York. She released her first poetry chapbook Glitter Bomb in 2014 and her work has been published in The Nervous Breakdown, The Legendary, GERM Magazine, and Words Dance Magazine, among others. She likes books, dogs, and dollar drafts.

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