I saw you on the internet, your waist
a narrow funnel from your chest, your hips
flared out to fit the width of bones required
to walk, to sit. Let’s talk about your face –
your lineless forehead and your pouty lips,
your eyes so wide the sun could burn away
your corneas before you even blinked.
The plastic gods have done their worst to me.
I have no power, no potency, no rights.
I am a pawn, and Girlfriend, you must know
I’m not alive. My carved and plastic hands
can’t hold a spoon. My rosebud mouth can’t taste
sorbet. My knees won’t bend, and if you must know
it’s been so long since I’ve made love to Ken.
And then there’s you, you little fool. You bought
the scam, you believed you weren’t enough
the way you were. Your perfect imperfections
made you you – your average breasts, your cellulite,
your slightly drooping eyelids, your chipped tooth.
You weren’t meant to sit upon the shelf
like me and wait for some poor girl to gaze
at ball gowns and bikinis, bleach blond hair,
and start to wonder what was wrong with her.
It’s crushing, let me tell you, to watch her eyes
light up like sequins, to see her tiptoe-walk
along the aisles with tainted views of womanhood
and grace. Dear God! To take it back! To take
you back, and her, and while we’re at it, me.