Back home, the girls are not soft —
they pit peaches with their teeth,
drink sadness like they’re starving.

They always dance alone,
listen to songs with lyrics
about strawberry wine.

They blossom like beer bottles,
wear october on their shins,
split open, screaming —

a foreign rose
just aching
for a fight.

― The Girls Back Home | d.a.s. (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)