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TRIGGER WARNING: MENTION OF CHILDHOOD ABUSE / SEXUAL MISCONDUCT AND MENTION OF POTENTIAL ABUSE (IMPLIED), SEXUALITY / SEXUAL ACTS Your Guilt Glows In Bars Like Plastic Ceiling Stars Lived through childhood without any physical scars at least the kind sunshine outlines. But men all see them plain inside of any bar, skin map of zinc sulfide blacklight stars. When you sit near strangers in the dark, with the thin marred arms of an easy mark, they see their way straight inside, vulnerabilities you cannot hide behind your prim pretty sundress. They know you honor all requests in parking lots, alleys, suburban woods. You speak fluently their faux incest, a babyface though they know you’re no good. You pass for innocent on sunny streets — and they will punish you for this deceit.  Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated writer. She is a Best of the Net 2020 finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal). She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com
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