mrs. not me

Merry Christmas, girls, 

drink in your time bombs. 

Before long, the world will 

rob you of your spit, your hiss, 

give you a new last name that 

punctuates the theft. I learned 

best as a Miss, I admit, the collapse

of pliant things like skin and self-

esteem became so deadly to me.

What do you mean I will sag?

What do you mean a man will ask

me to wear his shoe as a hat? 

Is that the fad of the day, bug 

play? My antennae are Twizzlers

wrapped in twelve precise layers

of aluminum foil, in hopes that I

can get a signal to the other worlds;

help! I no longer want to dress

as a roach with a breadcrumb 

brooch! They’ve assigned me four

extra arms and legs to seduce

truckers on the roadside. When one

finally tips his hat and picks me

up, I find his skin to be a familiar

green, that of my eyes when I speak

of little things, the ones that make me 

feel so alive!