MAD SUNDQUIST

Club Kid

in the club i feel rage
a kid-girl sitting against a wall waiting to leave.
this is towards nothing and no one but anticipation.

anticipation like thirteen,
kicking rocks at the strip mall
waiting for some place or thing to be meant for you.

entitled but honest,
it takes no accountability;
a feeling as helpless
as soles on scuffed concrete.

in the club i feel guilt
a child unraveling
anger from grown-out hair,
revealing i am not doing what i came here to do,
which was to kiss lips and kill the unwanted parts of myself,
to glow against the cheekbones of my peers.

tonight i am caught in the wind
i am impossible, i am a weapon on the dance floor,
sharp-rubbing shoulders i hardly know, a risk
an open wound
a vibrant contagion of noise and senseless irritation.

no gloss nor grace,
im burning louder than the sounds meant to be heard,
the real ones beating over my head,
built and spun to transfigure those in their path,
to consume us with pure presence and light-dappled hands.

my teeth appear in flashes in the black box, illuminated fang-white
shamed frustration smile
misplaced contempt
i wonder where my arms ought to go next

fly outside, tie self to picnic bench
sit on claws
keep eyes down like knifepoint.

it is ugly to be seen like this:
scratched naked by sidewalk road rage
reeking of summer hubris,
a little desperate craving
for endless conversation,
no vessel for the words.

i reject the club
deny its release,
too much alive to contain in one room
too self-aware for strange communion;

no, tonight i alone must
kick the rocks
crank the song
skip the beat over the curb
swim the gutter fountain
cook the street greens from concrete
and pray a little.

crossing diagonals on red
i zig-zag myself home
the indoor fog transformed to moth-speckled streetlight

i remember slowly:
shame is like the blue stained glass on your windows;
fooling me in the early morning
but then so easily peeled off the pane.

Mad is a writer, archivist, and musician living in Berlin by way of Brooklyn.