Screw this pink lipstick trend! I need some blood!
screamed the leader, the Queen-B-
cup. The instigator in a roomful of mannequins
began to advance towards me; to infiltrate my defenses
and my defenses were already down. I had spent too much time
in the cosmetics line, surrounded by glossy sheen
of unreal imagery. So this is what happens after
hours. I'm stalked by wigs askew and missing arms and legs
that will not bend, but keep encroaching
on my space. Some girls carry their heads
in their hands. Stiff fingers. Missing spines. Eyes painted on
me. They want to detach me, itemize me,
parcel me out. The leader craves my long legs
for the girl that is just a torso. She's just another
warped bra model. I'm pretty flat-chested, but they want me
taken apart, broken down, carted away. They want to consume
my brain. The only defense I have left
is to become fake, too. So this is what happens when you freeze-
frame me in a molded plastic pose. Some girls ransack
the cash registers for brain mechanisms. They check out
my mouth, wrench out the tongue. They run their unjointed fingers
across the currency of flesh. I'm held captive by prefab red talons.
She woke up today.
in the bathtub.
the water looked black.
she could smell the candles
burning into the walls.
the used matches
still filled the room.
playground love kept playing.
over and over and over.
and then she sank.
into the dark red medium.
i felt your oily fingertips
the last thing I remember.
your empty words
laid in my cigarette clutter.