Poets logo

Dirty Girl.

By Lindsay StickneyPublished about a month ago 2 min read
Dirty Girl.
Photo by Om Prakash Sethia on Unsplash

there is a white house whispering behind you and the door is unlocked,

but you hold your cut fingers to your ears and continue to pick up your feet.

housed by 4 willow trees and dirt between your toes, you have lost your leveled ground.

you have no place to rinse your feet.

please come back to the house.

take these scissors, cut your amygdala in the shape of a heart and wear it around your neck, it’s much prettier there.

that’s the first step.

let me remove the belt of bones fastened across your waist, we’ll replace it with the tape and measure your allotted peacefulness.

then, we can wrap you in something that will hide the ink under your skin and the scars on your chest.

remove the stains from your lace and lay between 4 bed posts until your number is chosen.

why can’t you sit still?

get out of the rain, the rain is no place for someone like you.

come inside this room.

brush each strand of your turbulent hair until stilled and your great-grandmother cannot be traced.

you wear your dirty skin as if your mother dowsed it in gold upon your arrival.

let me wash the dirt you claim as stories and make you smooth again.




why are you climbing up trees?

you sway with the sleepy leaves as if they’ll set themselves afire to keep you warm at night.

silly girl, altruism died decades ago and spread its ashes on the pages of your childhood stories.

why can’t you sit still?

your fingers are stained red from painting on rocks in hopes of planting seeds of divergent thinking.

stop feasting with wolves.

come sit, i’ve assembled a colorful plate of peaches and seeds.

the flesh on your thighs makes too much noise, your skin commands too much space, you are too dense.

let me slice and pluck you until you float.

your weighted footsteps shake his gaze, but you were meant to stay in focus.

why are you singing to yourself and debating with the moon when your galaxy exists between your thighs?

hand me your dagger.

let me smooth the sharpness from your tongue and sew it with rubies.




why can’t you sit still?

i will watch your shadow from my window every night until 4 as you smile, dancing to the sound of your delusional mud-decorated happiness.

mistaking freedom for purposefulness,

you disrobed pretty at the doorstep years ago and wrapped yourself in self-declared naked peace.

don’t worry, i saved it for you and tucked it in the 4th room on the right, under the place you used to paint your face.

it’s waiting for you to come home, but pretty flirts with the clock.

it won’t wait forever.

do you not understand how offensive you are in its absence?

your eyes.

your skin.

your hair.

your body.

i’m waiting for you to wake up and realize you are alone.

i’m waiting for you to wake up suffocating in shame.

you poor, poor girl, you’ve convinced yourself you’re real.

come inside.

let me make you worthy.

social commentary

About the Creator

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights


There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2023 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.