Now, in my girl-grave,
I can finally recount
The few times when I was brave.

Once, I poured rubbing alcohol in my tea-
To clean off the bacteria
Of all the rancid rubbing
He had done on me.

At TSA in Buffalo, those crows took my pocket knife.
But I'm scrappy,
I tell lies,
And I weaseled my way out of their blinking urban complex of detectors-
No surprise.

Last October, I lit a retired christmas tree on fire
To try and feel a few years younger.
It didn't work, she was a temporary heroine-
In what new bravery can I find her?.