by Olivia Gatwood
what I mean is that when my grandmother
called to ask why I didnât respond to her letter,
all I heard was, Why didnât you
text me back? Why donât you love me?
And how can I talk about my grandmother
without also mentioning that if everyone is a teen girl, then so are the birds, their soaring
cliques, their squawking throats,
and the sea, of course, the sea,
its moody push and pull, the way we drill
into it, fill it with our trash, take and take
and take from it and still it holds us
each time we walk into it.
What is more teen girl than not being
loved but wanting it so badly
that you accept the smallest crumbs and call
yourself full; what is more teen girl than
my fatherâs favorite wrench, its eternal loyalty
and willingness to loosen the most stubborn of bolts;
what is more teen girl than my motherâs chewed
nail beds, than the whine of the floorboards in herÂ
house?
What is more teen girl than my dog, Jack,
whose bark is shrill and unnecessary,
who has never once stopped a burglar
or heeled on command but sometimes
when I laugh, his tail wags
so hard it thumps against the wall, sometimes
it sounds like a heartbeat, sometimes I yell at him
for talking too much, for his messy room,
sometimes I put him in pink, striped polos
and I think he feels pretty,
I think he likes to feel pretty,
I think Jack is a teen girl.
and the mountains, oh, the mountains,
what teen girls they are, those colossal show-offs,
and the moon, glittering and distant
and dictating all of our emotions.
My loverâs tender but heavy breath while she sleeps
is a teen girl, how it holds me and keeps
me awake all at once, how I sometimes wish
to silence it, until she turns her body and
the room goes quiet and suddenly I want it back.
Imagine the teen girls gone from our world,
and how quickly we would beg for their return,
how grateful would we be then for their loudÂ
enthusiasm
and ability to make a crop top out of anything.
Even the men who laugh their condescending laughs
when a teen girl faints at the sight of her
favorite pop star, even those men are teen girls,
the way they want so badly to be so big
and important and worshipped by someone.
Pluto, the teen girl, and her rejection
from the popular universe,
and my father, a teen girl, who insists he doesnât
believe in horoscopes but wants me to tell
him about the best traits of a Scorpio,
I tell him, We are all just teen girls,
and my father, having raised me, recounts the time heÂ
found the box of love notes and condom wrappers IÂ
hid in my closet, all of the bloody sheets, the missingÂ
socks,
the radio blaring over my pitchy sobs,
the time I was certain I would die of heartbreak and in a moment was in love with a small, new boy,
and of course there are the teen girls,
the real teen girls, huddled on the subway
after school, limbs draped over each otherâs shoulders
bones knocking, an awkward wind chime
and all of the commuters, who plug in theirÂ
headphones
to mute the giggle, silence the gaggle and squeak,
not knowing where they learned to do this,
to roll their eyes and turn up the music,
not knowing where they learned this palpable rage,
not knowing the teen girls are our most distinguished
professors, who teach us to bury the burst
until we close our bedroom doors,
and then cry with blood in the neck,
foot through the door, face in the pillow,
the teen girls who teach us to scream.