The Truth About Good Girls

She's a rock star, bad ass grrrl who growls
and grinds with the best of them. That sweaty, sexy angel,
patron saint of black leather gyrations and motel room moans.
She sits photo shoots with her bass, coordinates her clothes
to match the blood and midnight varnish: signs autographs,
sings nightclubs, smiles like any of it matters.

Teenage girls worship her, scribble lyrics into
their journals and adore her angst. They use words
like goddess and gorgeous, copy her makeup
(one part sheer glamour, two parts burgundy lipstick)
and cry when her words are so true, so true.

And the boys worship too: covet that sultry pout,
plaster their walls with pull-outs and photographs and posters.
It's her smirk they see as they masturbate
(sweaty palms and thumping pulse).
And later, that first time, it's her CD that's playing:
her backbeat is their rhythm, her fervor carries them.

Parents don't approve. She's too lusty, too
sen s ual. Rolling Stone calls her seductive
and she poses for that Playboy centerfold. Why not?
You only live once, she says, line from her song
and she smiles. Flashbulbs of the camera: frame
that long body spilled over black satin.
Once she was daddy's little girl, but those days
are over. Live, she says. You can't rewind.

And one more show, one more stalk onstage,
before she owns the world, the whole world
(but no, that's never been enough). Afterwards
she drinks pineapple juice and eats Oreos,
answers her fan mail and writes a new song.
She can hear herself on the radio, voice like rust and raindrops:
"And the truth about good girls,
they all wanna be bad."

...Yeah, she knows they all think
she's a bad girl. But the truth about bad girls,
they're just living our dream.

(You only live once – live, you can't
rewind.)