We are the hungry girls.
Greasy hair and soft lips,
we pore over our vices like rats in a dumpster
tones no longer hushed as we wail our deepest fears into the darkness
in a parked car on a Thursday night.
We are the hungry girls and
our hearts are slowing down.
Our overwhelming lust for life and sex and sustenance
is too much for our brains to bear.
Hungry girls chop off their hair, pierce their ears, and love the smell of gasoline and bleach.
This is the scent of something new, a change, an identity crisis fixed with a bandage of blue dye and stick-n-pokes.
Hungry girls regret nothing and hate everything.
Manic or high or both, we smash bloody hands together for sisterhood
Hungry girls tying ourselves together for life because
we never know when one of us will die.
Separated, we hold our breath when an ambulance screams past
because it could be a girl who starved.