She bursts through the door, garnished

in white: tutu, shortened silk corset, wings,

heightened by silver platform stilettos;

the angel has arrived, no less of a sinner

 

than the angel of death, clad in black,

standing behind. Ankle boot heels with a peep

toe, equally striking in lace and leather,

wings firmly pressed—angelical all the same.

 

Skin revealing, slutty, provocative—

innocence gone awry—

this one time a year such is allowed.

Where did the princesses

 

run off to—their steely men of gothic

horror waiting, drooling, expecting.

Dress to impress—the object

of other girls’ jealousy, a many guys’ desire.

 

The cop in her stunna shades assaults

Mario with the ready baton at her hip—

longer than her black shorts—thank

the Lord for the fishnet lace tights.

 

Over strong drinks, salty tears, and sweaty dances,

girls lose their faces: mascara smears, red

lipstick is kissed aside, memories fade and scenes collide

before the blackouts come shortly after midnight.

 

Oh pretty, the witch will get you—

save that next drink for another time,

when the devil isn’t preying

on you stumbling home in the dark.