Wet Fuzzy Kneesocks


Your public school pupils don’t wear plaid.

I do ritualistically because 

being sad trolling punk rock bars, for bad 

influences like you, in wet fuzzy,

socks, platform penny loafer shoes sometimes

ends with bruised thighs, thick fingers inside tight.

A fuckboy introduced us tonight, kind 

of, indirectly when he said, “this ain’t right;

he taught at my high school.” Your eyes on my

pleats, braids in my hair, you could pull me off 

by them anywhere. Pry amaretto sour 

from my fingers, ply me with ice cream. Scoff

when you can’t cum inside of a devoured 

teenage dream you purchased with whipped cream, hot fudge. 

Rains every second the one night we touch. 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and 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 23 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press) and Atheist Barbie (Maverick Duck Press). 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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