My elbows are unable to bend, shoulders over
rotated. Dislocated. As Barbie’s third-closest friend
I couldn’t cut the rebranding. I compared waists:
mine a little thicker. A tight-lipped smile. Perpetual
-ly holding my breath. Apply too much pressure
and my arms snap right off. But I’m still more popular
than porcelain dolls. Here’s the difference: you can
find me in the trash with my cheeks in one piece,
my jeweled hair, tinged chlorine green,
smudged with gum. A midge fly, a beauty queen.
All I know is that there is a body. I must be moved
to act. My drowning is in hypotheticals. The girl
knows the motive. I know the murder.