Why Didn't I Spend More Time in the Barn?

I know you are out there breaking other girls' hearts. You know, you could of just stayed here and broke mine instead. You wouldn't have had to travel so far and your feet won't hurt.

I met this boy and he really liked me. Or at least he liked my tits which seems to be the same thing these days. I told him he wasn't broken enough for me. I like my men more... shattered. Splintered. Beautiful.

My heart could split into all these shining garnet jeweled pieces. You could take them and add them to your crown. Frame your perfect face in bits of glass with burnished thrones settling between our legs. I can see my reflection in your eyes but I can not see myself.

Rich women drink champagne is giant bathtubs filled to brim with luxurious sparkling bubbles that slid down their perfect white skin. Poor girls like me drink beer in the shower. Poor girls like me wear beat up leather jackets they found in second hand shops. Poor girls like me know how to chop wood and build a fire. Poor girls like me rode in beat up dirty old pickup trucks that had no seat belts with their fathers laughing behind the wheel as they roared over a particularly big hole in the dirt road that bounced them all towards the roof. Poor girls like me grew up in a house where chainsaw parts littered the kitchen table. Poor girls like me know how it feels to starve and to still go into work that day. Poor girls like me carry knives in their back pocket. Poor girls like me miss the farm and haunt the city like big black bugs in the way of pretty rich white women who would rather spit on us than talk to us. Poor girls like me don't really care.

Then again, girls like me still keep their broken little hearts wrapped up in cellophane and bailing twine tucked inside the secret pocket of their leather jacket. It's covered in white dog hair, and orange cat hair, and bits of yellow sticky notes, and the blank ends of mixed tapes, and wild rose petals, and bits of green moss, and poems written about us, and fried dough, and bitter saskatoon berries, and broken fences, and grass hopper wings, and crow feathers, and golden grass, and alfalfa flowers, and old nails from the barn, and vodka, and stolen cigarettes, and rustling birch leaves in the fall sun, and watercress from the stream in the ditch, and shells from my brother's rifle, and stones from the creek next to the house, and my mother's big yellow bowl, and flour from the bread, and the last traces of childhood mixed with the sweet spit of your last kiss.

I'm not here anyways. I think I've gone home.