The glow of a suburban streetlamp shines on us, three teenage girls throwing punches at one another because we have just seen Fight Club for the first time. Holed up in the weed punk smoky bedroom of one of us, we drank in the narrator’s words, Tyler’s words, with each sip from the hard lemonade bottles we passed around. Anti-capitalism, anti-authority; we are adolescent experts, of course. (And my heart beats for Ed Norton, but I’ll never tell.)
In the auto body shop’s parking lot, our pockets are empty. We are untraceable. We are anonymous. We are three teenage girls taking swings at each other in the dead heat of a summer night because we can.
This piece originally appeared in my poetry collection Reflections in a Dirty Mirror (2015).
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