I feel so good when I listen to Ariana Grande
I can feel the air around me become a party
city halo and remind me god is a woman
who took word Hit into her own hands
and brought them together until the sound
became a synonym for beloved,
a round of appletini applause.
I can hear the mercy seagulls squawking ugly joy
in the distance and sometimes, I too, think
“I should get Botox” when I meditate.
Like I am so present I want to inject that stillness
into my face. Remove a time machine’s cheap Forever
21 panties with my teeth and taste
what it’s like to have more time
for moments like these. I want to live laugh love so hard
the cliche claps back into a Coachella of encores.
I mean, who wouldn’t buy a selfie stick
if they truly believed they were made in God’s image?
So happy hour they can’t help but punctuate
their pauses with likes and, honest, to god I literally
think White Claw might be holy water the way it baptizes
me in black cherry carbonation so sweet a choir of childhood
Polly Pockets dances in my throat. I know,
I’m about as profound as a Ben & Jerry’s heartbreak
which is to say I’d choose Cherry Garcia sadness
over being clever every time
because clever people don’t even know what they don’t know
and I’d rather be a dumb blonde joke than someone taken seriously.
I mean, even when I’m in love, I don’t want to be taken
I just want to be given back to myself
in a Pinterest board peonied with titles like “wedding ideas”.
All my exes have tried to tell me what’s wrong with pop music
but what’s more holy than the genre that takes it name
from what the breath does when kissed into
the stickiest shade of balloon. I’m a hot pink mess.
I’m a Frappuccino prayer. Y/AAAASSSS
is my new hallelujah. The way it’s just yes with a bit more
junk in the trunk. I could make capitalism blush
with the amount of times I’ve unironically
used the phrase “retail therapy”.
I’m such a basic bitch I had to dictionary.com the word basic
to be reminded that it literally means fundamental
and, like yeah, I agree I think the world needs more people like me
to unhate themselves for being fangirl fuckboyed
into thinking there’s something wrong
with not liking more underground music.
The last time I put my ear to the ground
I heard all the places I hadn’t been
and felt so much FOMO I forgot how beautiful
a well-lit Instagram photo could be. I forgot how much
I really love to Netflix until the Grey’s Anatomy Gods
come out to ask me the only question that really matters
if I’m still watching.
I’m still watching.
So here’s to the praise hands emoji
who gave me a way to can’t even my odds
of loving anything more than choosing
not to be a pessimist. To the church of bottomless brunch
and butterfly tattoos. May we never stop being infinite
in the exact same way.
L. T. Pelle is a student living in New Jersey with her 2 dogs. Her poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Rattle, FreezeRay Poetry, and 3Elements Literary Review.