stella monet rolls her cuffs up on all of her jeans, destroys all of her clothes for fun, dances around to indie music in her room for no reason other than the world is ending, so why not enjoy our bones? stella sings every song, even if she slurs and pick up the next line, plays guitar with pins in her jacket. she calls her body a badass. her friends call her a put together mess, but messes are also collages, and street corners, aren’t they? she cuddles boys while watching brooklyn nine-nine and kiss girls while listening to father john misty; she wonders if her dreams could be fake before making out with the stars. stella reads her horoscope daily, carry around a cheap camera and ray-bans. moody is her middle name. bleach and manic panic will never tangle out of her chopped hair. you can see the little tattoos poking from short sleeves graphic tees, one of circles, one of a daisy, one of cursive that no one can read, but it says, “goodbye.” stella carries a façade of happiness with her, stella carries an everything of happiness with her, that she is put together, that her stitches are seamed and her dreams are already accomplished, under docs martens, under whatever the hell she throws on. stella’s lipstick comes in fives different shades of i’m here, i’m queer, i’m tired, but i am kicking. her eyeshadow sparkles in the sunlight. she has been living so long stella can fix messes created by mascara and boys with water and a purpose. stella believes in divine madness, the idea that the world revolves arounds her, but she will burn out one day. as our sun reflects in her glass, stella puffs her cigarette, see her future in the tobacco smoke. stella freaks out. stella doesn’t bother with jeans anymore. stella tries to sew up all of the holes; tries to make herself into former holes — gone. stella is glasses in high school. stella is the scratched vinyl record that someone else now has, stella is a red giant burning in the vast vacuum that the world decided to claim as theirs. one day, someone will wear glasses and smile. one day, someone will collect the records. one day, someone will gasp at the supernova created from her explosion.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.