In high school,
things were different.

She’d scribble chupe mi pito
in triple inks across the inside cover
of her Spanish notebook,
ever angry, ever shunned.

Then one weekend, junior year, late February,
a house party where she’d arrived by simply tagging along,
a house party where she had too much Purple Passion,
a house party where in good spirits they told her she’d a face that would sink a thousand ships,
a house party where she slipped into a side room to be alone,
and instead stumbled into the Goat,
and what happened
happened.

Then he named her.
Hurled the name
through her to pierce, maim,
to prove to the rest that he hadn’t been into it,
could never be into it, would never dream of it.

Like any name, it wasn’t
her choice; assigned on a whim.
Like any name, it didn’t
seek her approval.

Chupacabra knew
that myths are
but the ill-pruned results
of poorly-tended
seeds of fact.

Knowing didn’t help, however,
those late nights,
reciting her birth name
into a damp pillow.

She knew she had to act,
shape her name into legend,
show all those goats
another way to frame
their relation.

So, on graduation day,
Chupacabra tilted her head,
puckered her lips,
and planned a new method
to hunt down some likes.