Two Poems

American Girls

He bought her flowers: roses, red roses
the day after he marked my neck with a bruise.
While he brought the bouquet to the register,
I bought myself powder and a tube of concealer.
He told me I look European, as in, un-American;
I reminded him of the girls he left in London.
She’s so American with her brunette curls,
pink bows plastered onto jean skirt pockets.
Until I got mine removed, we had the same tattoo:
semicolons—on the wrist, above the scars;
so cliché, the two of us, so all-American.
He told me she doesn’t exist—not as I think;
I don’t exist either—not as he thinks about me.
I’m miss Americana with my blonde hair and
blue jeans, fuzzy family history, thumb rubbing
on the pistol I found in my grandpa’s dresser.
He told me he told her about me already—
what lies did he spew between sweet nothings?
Were they the same nothings he used to woo me?
Sprawled across his sheets, I told him he’s worldly.
He asked me what I meant, as in, what the word meant.