The boy with false eyelash spiders
dripping shiny dew drops
like the baubles in his ear
orders a pink frothed cream
and doesn't
does he
think of his father.

The girl with big breasts
thick legs behind the counter
compliments him as a word to
hold onto, steadies the skinny girl
whose back is bowed
as an apology for
all the empty mouthfuls

Her butterfly ring, laced confessionary
tattoos thicker than her flesh

And the fat girl calls her "hot" because
she knows it means nothing
but I understand you,
I understand where
you are, and it doesn't make sense
but that's
okay.

The bent girl blushes crimson—
the painted boy stares at her
he should've said it himself—
she argues instead of accepting.
The big girl, with a voice so loud it whispers fear,
smiles and tells her don't worry,

I don't feel beautiful either.