Why should I be jealous?
They don’t even have names.
They’re just the hot girls, hot girls, hot girls,
lined up for their fake breast exams.
They might as well be manikins,
but they are so warm. I am lukewarm
and lumpish. Why do I feel like that?
Like the last picked in a high school gym class.
Like posed awkwardly at a semi-formal dance.
Ripped red crepe paper streamer
sticking to my ill-fitting kitten heel.
Smearing my uneasy trail of bloody fur.
Sweaty tube top slide, misplaced glitter
in the crevice, the crevasse, the sticky ass
morass. A “lab technician” enters to analyze
your spit; adds it to the latest girlie drink.
Otherwise known as frou frou. Otherwise known as coo coo.
Otherwise known as cuckoo. Otherwise known as fluff.
You thought you were spitting out don’t mess with me daggers,
but it was just the metal file on another pair of nail clippers.
You should push your unruly cuticles down. You should prepare
for the “carpet remnant” evaluation. You should be painfully aware
that spare tire does not equal spare change; that stray hairs
will be subjected to industrial-strength “steam cleaning”.
You thought you were a different kind of stripper, a sassier version
of majorette. Yet your batons are just more hairpins and mascara wands;
sugar wax applicators dripping their marionette strings. You should try to wield that
immaculate “hostess tray”. You should keep all those messy “deviled eggs” in line.