Something Monumental

She thought she was part of something monumental.
Letting boys finger the still-tender bumps  
on the edges of her newly inked tattoo.
Their rough fingers explored its tangled lines
then sought the soft places where she was
unmarked.

The kitchen counter was still sticky
from when she streaked her hair hot-pink with Kool-Aid, spilling it across the linoleum.
Even now  
the smell of false rebellion  
was that of colored sugar.

She licked hot, salty blood from her mouth after her lip was pierced
with ice cubes and an apple
while her friend stood by, admiring her handiwork.

She blasted classic rock from her secondhand BMW
not really understanding who Pink Floyd, The Velvet Underground
or Rolling Stones were.
What they stood for.

She snuck out nights
always leaving the desk light on
to greet her chilled body in the whispering hours of morning.

She danced too close to unknown, smoky bodies in the dark
whose names, if they had mattered
could not have been heard above screaming music.

And she thought
she was part of something unexplored
and monumental.