The poems read like they were scribbled in a notebook, in class, right before the bell rings. They come in thick stream-of-consciousness paragraphs, numbered lists, and long-lined odes that almost trip over their own gushing. The key here, though, is the almost; you can follow Crawford’s rambling thoughts as far as they go—almost too far!—but they always stop right where they need to.
There have always been teenage girls battling Sharptooths in one way or another, and always will be: “Your frills are / made of bone and we were born that way.”
It’s a perfectly ironic scenario: crushed by the expectations, or crushed again by the attempt to defy them? Either way, you’re crushed.