freaks scare me

Freaks scare me,
shaved heads running quickly into spiked hair,
barbed wire etched in their skin,
black lips drawing attention from blacker eyes,
breasts barely hidden within,
walking in man strides;
tough.
Tough enough to clear space.
(Mad Max fans every one)

What does their mirror say?
Standing before it adjusting their chains
does it echo longings for cartoon pajamas and pigtails?
At eight did she stand before the looking glass dreaming
of wearing only black?
When she fell from her bike and cut her knee, did she lick the blood
in longing despair for future piercings of her skin?
And as she pulls her fingers through the stiff gel to point the hair,
does she smile at the success?
(Mad Max wants me.)

As others stare,
looks of disgust, fear, or concern,
she passes with strides of toughness.
(At least they noticed me.)
Noticed, yes, but to what end?
What did we notice?
What is it that we should see?
Unapproachable
Unfeeling
Anti-social
Unwilling
Lonely
Screaming for direction, and self worth?
Is that what the mirror says?

At least as hippies,
We were pretty to look at