Ms. Violent Vanessa

Ms. Violent Vanessa sits inside
She is into scratchiti and tattoos
Ms. Violent Vanessa supposes
She draws conclusions
in bright red nail polish
spilled on kitchen counters

Ms. Violent Vanessa doesn't get out much
She is a victim of the Good Girl Guard
Ms. Violent Vanessa can read, she knows
She knows the details of the restraining order
and despite her flaws and flailing nature
she respects the law

Ms. Violent Vanessa misses Riot Grrl
She remembers Bikini Kill and the babes lost in toyland
Ms. Violent Vanessa was born wrong
She bursted onto a dead scene and
was tragically conceived, planned, and eugenicized
to not have a tongue

Ms. Violent Vanessa tastes like amber candy
She has sat away from the sun too long
Ms. Violent Vanessa sours and preserves
She is canned fruit, dusty, in wooden cupboards
in a house long abandoned, forgotten
by people who couldn't afford cardboard boxes

No one likes Ms. Violent Vanessa when she's angry
No one likes Ms. Violent Vanessa when she writhes
No one likes Ms. Violent Vanessa when she tries to explain
that all little girls, all sold-out women, all dried prune ladies
sometimes need a place to scream, seethe, and dream