Page 14 of Crank (Crank 1)

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I remember

the night I first

let her go, opened the

smeared glass, one thin pane,

cellophane between rules and sin,

freed.

More on Bree

Spare me

those Psych ’01 labels,

I’m no more schizo than most.

Bree is

no imaginary playmate,

no overactive pituitary,

no alter ego, moving in.

Hers is the face I wear,

treading the riptide,

fathomless oceans where

good girls drown.

Besides,

even good girls have secrets,

ones even their best friends must guess.

Who do

they turn to on lonely

moon-shadowed sidewalks?

I’d love to hear them confess:

Who do they become when

night descends,

a cool puff of smoke, and

vampires come out to party?

My Mom Will Tell You

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