I met one in middle school—she was the prettiest thing

it was her blonde hair, and cute teeth, and air-head airs

and perfect blue eyes, and sweet dimpled cheeks

She had already figured-out, she could get whatever she wanted

by giggling

and pretending,

she didn’t know.

My aunt said, “She’s such a pretty thing.”

And I pretended like I didn’t know

Back then, I had a certain kind of wisdom

that comes with knowing,

there are only certain things you can control

and a woman who makes every boy in school do, what she wants them to

is as far away from that, as wishes are from kisses.

She wore her black thong above her jeans

like a lustful shoelace

and the boys gathered around, to give her what she wanted

and I paid her no mind

because I knew my thoughts would cost me too much

and one day she asked me for a dollar fifty

to buy some nachos for lunch

and I said, “No.”

“You are mean!” She cried, and stomped off.

It was the only word I said to her in middle school.

and I was probably the only boy who told her “No.”

I didn’t think of it then,

because I said “No”

from instinct.

Now, that I look back on it,

I smile.

In 7th grade, I saw her mom

She was blonde too, with a faded face

and overweight grace

and clothes that didn’t care about fashion or style

a divorce

a difficult life

with only faith, to hold onto

This good girl, who I knew

dyed her hair blue

and married an electrician

popping-out three babies

and loving them, despite her post-partum depression.

Now, she cries on Facebook and complains about how she isn’t beautiful anymore

and her friends comfort her

with reassuring false words

She thinks, men are evil

accusing her husband of nasty things.

Her friends, sew her love

and hate

in the threads

“Leave your husband. You deserve better.”

But she knows, she isn’t beautiful, anymore

and even the naivest male

won’t date her

because her colors

scream, “Danger!”

Poisonous things advertise

with greens and blues

and multicolored tattoos


killed by chemicals

acidic, eating away

of the female

until the good girl

is a gone girl.

6 thoughts on “So, where do the Good Girls Go?

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