The Blue Bic Lighter

Poetry

Olivia Dillon  

I was crouched down on the cement,  

with a cigarette perched  

between my French tips.  

Babel voices scattered the  

breezy streets.  

My lip gloss divorced from my lips  

marrying the stick hanging from my fingers.  

A trio of men out late at night only 

yearn for one thing.  

Quick glances behind, in front, around, looking up for easy 

prey that will miraculously appear. 

Go ahead and look up some more,  

maybe someone desperate enough will fall from the sky. 

A woman with her girlfriend subjected to their stares and 

hollers.  

My head smacked back onto the stone 

wall. Alexis sat beside me, took the cigarette 

from my hand. “You planning on talking to them or just watching them all night?” 

Added moisture to my lips.  

“More like disgustingly admiring them?” 

The blonde 

peered past his friends. 

Green eyes jerked down  

to the Parliaments between my  

black  

Doc Martins.  

“Doll, you got a lighter?” the blonde asked, he  

somehow sounded so— 

condescending.  

His friends had a lighter, I saw them flick the flame from their blue Bic.  

A nod, nothing more, 

forsaking my bedazzled lighter.  

I took my cigarette back from my friend, the boy lit his own, smiled knowingly and walked 

away. 

“He took my fucking lighter.”