You have people. One drives me now, a cop,
off-duty. Knock, a giveaway, before
I see the holstered gun. Won’t chat or stop
until I’m locked behind your hotel door.
You have me. Younger than your daughter, all
the hair I have removed or bleached at your
request, camera ready for your call
to action. “Think of them as me but more.”
You have your friends, ones, like me, who know
the secret parts of you. Co-stars rotate
inside my screams, a tiny tied-down show.
The believers of your speeches, the great
women’s rights defender except for mine.
For them, you hide. With me, you cross the line.
By Kristin Garth
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five: 2: One, Glass, Anti-Heroin Chic, Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, Luna Luna, TERSE. Journal and many more. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press, and she has two forthcoming: Pensacola Girls (Bone & Ink Press, Sept 2018) and Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019). Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie