Death and Pom-poms

She hate, hate, hated me
more than chirping blondes that crooned
over six- packs and pom-poms,
doctors with stained teeth
and needles they used
like heroin, rubber bands tied
around clipboards and death wishes.
More than bombs that exploded with words
like “we need to talk”
or “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Who’s sorry, she whispers
into paper napkins she scrunches and bunches,
blows into the wind with a flick of breath,
then groans and says she hates me
for falling from the pyramid,
reaching its peak then tumbling forward,
without a seatbelt,
through the window,
white pom-poms turned dirty red on the street.

~ Alexa L.