bleeding glitter and magazine glue

sometimes i wonder if there is ever such thing
as being born broken

plastic girls under plastic lights
silhouette in sodium 
twinkling ballerinas frozen in picture perfect place

as the hand cranks it 

and she is let loose, 
stiff twirl stilted and slow
turning a milimeter at a time and pausing

and we are nothing but music box figurines

i wonder how we became this 

a digital worship to the gods that inhabit our empty plates
we think that if we have an empty stomach we will have an empty mind

and everything will stop b ou n cin g around in there
ricocheting like bullets on steel 

but we are just crinkled paper balls
soggy cardboard falling apart, 
torn easily and never patched together

and i wonder why 

we are staticky outlines, 
left behind when someone took the time to cut us out of the picture
an empty spot, gap 
they complain that we are not there when we have already protested our removal

i don't know the reason
for the fact that decelerations of love
rattle empty in our chests

like the compliments we paint onto our faces
to cover our tear tracks 

and how we have tattoos carried in the weight of our gut 
that mirror the 
number on the scale

because this is our new nightmare
the ticking like a clock 
as it measures our self-worth

push-ups, squats, 
we tear at our body until it does what we wish
daily regimen of the doomed

dirty girls stained with dirty thoughts

nobody likes a woman who's not pure

we shake hands with starvation 
and wish it a good day 

and i flick idly at the plastic ballerina 
serene smile stitched to her lips 
eyes held wide by tape 
descending waist a memory of when ribcages weren't skin
pink paint chipping
arms like matchsticks waiting to be lit 
a live grenade
an active bomb 

she wobbles once, twice, 

and though the spring creaks

she does not fall. 

The End

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