This summer I have embraced my inner cliche and have reveled in timeless white girl teenage angst. I turned twenty a few weeks ago and feel less entitled to my griping, but then I stop caring and write some bad poetry.

I love writing bad poetry; I wallow in it like a pig in the mud. The fifteen year old Maggie is pretty amped. She wants to go smoke a joint and call Brian and tell him to bring a guitar. Twenty year old Maggie thinks that's a pretty dumb idea but whatever. I'll just share some poetry instead (and I still need my intros).

Drunk Write

Sort of like drunk talk,

drunk write is those letters you write that you’ll never send

and those poems you write you wish you never did.

It’s crying as you try to figure out how to tell your friend that you were wrong

or sending a note to ask “how do i know if i’m ready?”

It’s laughing too hard at what the bouncer said

and turning around when you want to pretend you didn’t hear your friend.

It’s blogging at 12:04 am before you go to the bar

to get even more drunk

before you make calls you’ll regret

before you call him and say i love you

before you vomit in the bathroom with your friend outside the stall asking if you’re okay.

It’s being too honest, too mean, too willing to dance.

It’s writing a poem about it with expectations

and gin in your mouth.

Oh god, oh god, oh god—

it’s realizing you’re that girl.

Drunk write is being a bottle of soda pop all shook up

and you’re ready to explode.

Poor Guinevere

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

Stuck in your house all day

With knights chasing cups

And Merlin calling you a slut

While your husband’s fucking his sister, the Fay

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

No woman would ever blame you—

After all, you were a virgin whose father

said “Why not? It’s no bother!”

Before Lancelot could say "I love you too."

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

We all know it isn’t fair

Knights keep kidnapping you

And Arthur (that dick!) keeps trying to burn you

And Lancelot pulls Elaines out of thin air

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

Your stepson really is a bit of an ass

He’s wrecking havoc wherever he goes

And where he’ll stop you don’t want to know

Everything’s starting to move a little too fast

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

Arthur has died because of you

Not for love for he never really did

But a man’s scorned dick just cannot be hid

And so now you’ll have to give up Lancelot’s too

Guinevere, poor Guinevere

A nun’s habit is not the worst fate

With daily prayers

And less, less, less cares

You’ll be fine once you learn to masturbate!

Cold

They say we are living in a digital world and I am a digital girl

with cellular pixels that are arranging and rearranging, shifting and shaping

into illusions for their screens but I don’t feel like hundreds of waves in a wire.

I feel like an ice cream sundae

made with pistachio ice cream skin

and chocolate sauce hair with a licorice belly button

and a maraschino cherry nose.

Caramel freckles with

chocolate sprinkles spattered across

and I’m melting into a crystal bowl with a silver spoon.