I blast the Olivia Rodrigo concert in my tiny apartment
by Natalie Wolf
because I too wish to be fishnet stockings and chainmail dress, GUTS
smeared across my Regency cleavage. I too wish to be high kicks
in combat boots, wide bedazzled eyes burning the curtains, an army
of ghost selves grinning grateful behind me. Attacking the drum set
like a predator. Like a priestess. Parasocial punk flashing black and white
and living color. Midwest Princess guest starring in my own show.
Wafting through on the crescent moon, a storm of stars. Throwing
c/overt shade, glittering loathing falling like blessings. Do not tell them
I am also the songs left unplayed, soft butterfly wings lapping
the inside of my ribcage. Déjà vu weeping on the floor. Say I am
adrenaline high, hips dancing to distortion. A bad idea, a goddamn
vampire. Ruby-toned ringmaster spinning in concentric circles
of hell. Tell them I am All-American Bitch, am sour, obsessed.
Brutal. I do not forgive. I do not forget. I am my own favorite
crime. Twisting coffined on the stage as eighteen thousand fans
scream my name. So do you hear me now? Do you hear me?
Natalie Wolf is a writer from the Kansas City area pursuing an MFA in creative writing at the University of Kansas. She is an editor for One Sentence Poems and a reader for Cottonwood Literary Magazine. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in Short Story, Long; The Hooghly Review; I-70 Review; and more. You can find her on her website (https://nwolfmeep.wixsite.com/nmwolf) and on Instagram @nwolfcats. Her favorite pizza topping is a moderate amount of cheese, which will then make her feel ill.
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