"Anxiety" by Larissa Monique Hauck
Ode to a Prom Dress by Senna Xiang
Prom dresses should be
criminalized, their chiffon bodies
chandeliered, christened, chain-smoked in a cell.
Listen, our gravesite has room
for only eight, so seat yourself elsewhere. I see
a golden namecard declaring your death.
My neckline is for a sweetheart, the boy that my mother still thinks
I am dating, the one whose friends nominated me
for Cheater Court. Too often now, I say
I am literate in love. I decode the sweat
that cursives the canvas of the back of his neck:
No baby, sorry baby, it wasn’t me baby, I love you baby. Baby I don’t
know how much longer I’ll stay
in this town. An aphorism of suburbia:
your crimes silence themselves as long as you
stay. At this point, I am hollowlight blackmailed
from the bodies I used to inhabit. Unclaimed
by the sharp pop of a Boylan’s bottle cap, every bubble a lonely beacon.
Each sleeve a single, withered tulip. A microscope’s heat
turns the petal to dust. We listen to Lana Del Rey and watch Clueless and
wonder if we’ll ever be part of that imprecise Americana. I’m
sorry I lie the way I love, better in the dark and
better with strangers. Three threadbare love songs later,
we are still buried at this awful table with grief as our centerpiece.
The culprit is still on the loose. The victim has left
too many clues behind, a mystery sheared
on the dance floor. Shrimp cocktail at sixteen
makes us feel all grown-up but it’s only
the name. My stomach bulges out from
underneath the drop-waist bodice.
I slip out to the bathroom for a while. The bluish light
blossoms like a bruise across the tight, tattooed
skin of the stall. It guards me, my body. My skirt
scrapes the floor, its silhouette no
wider than my hands this much
apart to symbolize how much I loved you. It notches
my legs, numbers my days, narrates
my quintessential high school experience.
Cut like a bias, I am an animal wounded.
Here are the ways I’ve hurt
all the men in my life. Except I
am not the same girl I was last winter, and I do
not owe them entitlement. I can’t tell
if I am the source of love
or just a mirror. I am the incident ray
and his reflection is rough and ragged. Never mind
those boys. I am in love with [ ] who smells like TV
static and the stale air con and those saintly singing
police sirens. There is a vague suggestion of a stain
on the waistline of my prom dress. It hangs
between my mother’s old leather jacket and my cadaveric crimes.
Shroud for the superficial. After graduation, I bring
my hand up against its lethal shine, a beckoning
blade that solders my skin shut. I cannot afford the luxury
of a cover-up. I cannot afford the pleasure
of a confession. I am the calculating courier
of all my future crimes. I categorize all my crimes like a receipt––
knowing that there is no return policy.
criminalized, their chiffon bodies
chandeliered, christened, chain-smoked in a cell.
Listen, our gravesite has room
for only eight, so seat yourself elsewhere. I see
a golden namecard declaring your death.
My neckline is for a sweetheart, the boy that my mother still thinks
I am dating, the one whose friends nominated me
for Cheater Court. Too often now, I say
I am literate in love. I decode the sweat
that cursives the canvas of the back of his neck:
No baby, sorry baby, it wasn’t me baby, I love you baby. Baby I don’t
know how much longer I’ll stay
in this town. An aphorism of suburbia:
your crimes silence themselves as long as you
stay. At this point, I am hollowlight blackmailed
from the bodies I used to inhabit. Unclaimed
by the sharp pop of a Boylan’s bottle cap, every bubble a lonely beacon.
Each sleeve a single, withered tulip. A microscope’s heat
turns the petal to dust. We listen to Lana Del Rey and watch Clueless and
wonder if we’ll ever be part of that imprecise Americana. I’m
sorry I lie the way I love, better in the dark and
better with strangers. Three threadbare love songs later,
we are still buried at this awful table with grief as our centerpiece.
The culprit is still on the loose. The victim has left
too many clues behind, a mystery sheared
on the dance floor. Shrimp cocktail at sixteen
makes us feel all grown-up but it’s only
the name. My stomach bulges out from
underneath the drop-waist bodice.
I slip out to the bathroom for a while. The bluish light
blossoms like a bruise across the tight, tattooed
skin of the stall. It guards me, my body. My skirt
scrapes the floor, its silhouette no
wider than my hands this much
apart to symbolize how much I loved you. It notches
my legs, numbers my days, narrates
my quintessential high school experience.
Cut like a bias, I am an animal wounded.
Here are the ways I’ve hurt
all the men in my life. Except I
am not the same girl I was last winter, and I do
not owe them entitlement. I can’t tell
if I am the source of love
or just a mirror. I am the incident ray
and his reflection is rough and ragged. Never mind
those boys. I am in love with [ ] who smells like TV
static and the stale air con and those saintly singing
police sirens. There is a vague suggestion of a stain
on the waistline of my prom dress. It hangs
between my mother’s old leather jacket and my cadaveric crimes.
Shroud for the superficial. After graduation, I bring
my hand up against its lethal shine, a beckoning
blade that solders my skin shut. I cannot afford the luxury
of a cover-up. I cannot afford the pleasure
of a confession. I am the calculating courier
of all my future crimes. I categorize all my crimes like a receipt––
knowing that there is no return policy.
Senna Xiang is a teen writer. Her work is published in Gasher Journal, Peach Magazine, Superfroot Magazine, and other lovely places.
Larissa Monique Hauck is a queer visual artist who graduated from the Alberta University of the Arts in 2014, where she received a BFA with Distinction. Her artwork has been featured in multiple regional and national group exhibitions as well as a growing number of international exhibitions. She has been selected for inclusion in events such as Nextfest 2018 (Edmonton, AB), Nuit Rose 2016 (Toronto, ON), and the 9th Annual New York City Poetry Festival 2019 (New York, US). Her drawings and paintings have also been featured in publications such as Creative Quarterly (US), Wotisart Magazine (UK), Minerva Rising (US), and various others.
