Piercings

I look you
in the eye
as you hold
the piercing
gun to my flesh
and I feel
nothing

other than the scratchy
fabric of the
raggedy-ass
couch in my
stepdad's basement.

You flash
a smile,
like you do
when you know
you're doing
something
really fucked up,

something that would
show up
in one of those movies
meant to scare teens away
from sex
and drugs
and
living life,

something like plotting
to deflower a mute kid
in a precarious three-way
in your best friend's basement
while his older brother
is distracted upstairs
with a box of
Walmart-brand donuts
and a glass of chocolate milk,

something like going through
with that fucked
three-way donut plan
and then
immediately after
piercing
your best friend's ears
with as many
earrings
as you can fit
around the edges
of her
red
blood-filled
ears

as she stares blankly
at your
stained
glass
churchyard
eyes
just waiting
for
the
click
of
the
gun.