Final girls, as we all hope to be – the vintage neon sign,
which does not fear the darkness
The one who does not become the carnage;
The demonic mystique;
The wishfuls, the antiheroes
But of course, there is nothing dull about a blood-hungry woman,
Her tragedies, could sell headlines.
Behind the news, she hopes enough to fill an empty room
The size of Mars with burning wicks, turn smoke with a wish –
Their eyes would find a place, anywhere else.

Yet, they follow
Among the pines, on a desolate path, to our cars, in the park, at the grocery, around the block
Anywhere we do not ask.
Creeps in our window,
Fetishizes our resistance,
Creates callousness to accompany our trauma –
Becomes vengeful when we spit venom into their eyes
Then asks why we are not softer; why we would ever represent
Anything other than, sweetness –
Why we, in all our ravenous beauty
Become adept to the taste of their pleas.

In honor of one of my favorite times of year, Halloween, I’m sharing a poem everyday in October inspired by Classic(ish) Halloween films. 4/31