“You make a great Mona Lisa – but you’re not one of us" he says

they will break me down.

Their glitz, glamour, cherub fountains, Vegas strips, and plastic surgery

The flickering bulbs and rush of traffic. Asphalt, high-rise, monuments, pole dancers, slot machines, mixed drinks, and posh hotels. The whirlpool Jacuzzi.

All the glamour of 90210.

The judges line up like game show, like who wants to be a millionaire, who’s got talent –

a specimen of (is this a prize breed?), the cattle prod –-

they’ll inspect my ass, thighs, teeth, stock. Am I prime stock? Grade A prime beef? For your liking or taking. Is my pussy tight and smooth – a playboy model for the mansion. Is my skin exquisite enough for swimming pools and movie stars? My luscious tan and youthful plump.

Comparisons will be made – to blonder, taller, fuller breasts

DNA sampled

A nightmare.

As I’ve grown accustomed to doughnut shops on back alleys downtown, cheap gasoline, and drunk lovers. Learned to take moments watching the sugar dissolve in my tea. Read the books of ‘mon ami’ as I lie in his bed with bugs. Little scars on my leg, he’s out cycling, in a race I knew nothing of.

Grown accustomed to being nobody and no one –

Crushed, overlooked, off to the side for sex or pride and revenge –

“damaged goods”, they say.

Maybe that’s’ your next big heartfelt hit, ‘damaged goods’

The girl left behind like butterfly effect, flies to the body bags of decay, kittens or dogs tossed out on the freeway – thinking, ‘who would do that?’

‘why?’

even the simplest things evade me – that warm bellied body, (full bodied taste) on trips out of town. The lie still why do you need sex with every touch of the hand, the caress of greying hair, the cock ring to keep it sturdy.

Assets, assets, and bank accounts in an elitist world --- I am ill adapted to

(complaining I use profanity while on the phone in the back corner of the coffee shop)

you drive expensive vehicles --- and I have to say, I love drinking craft beer in a dark Irish bar throwing darts, my shoes off – as the bartender lights the outdoor heat lamps, you’re buzzing and staring at me; that look of mild intoxication and adoration. So I throw a bean bag and your glass shatters on the brick. Do you think these people would give a shit if we were living a high school drama; a punk rock fantasy novel? That maybe all the money in the world couldn’t buy intimate pulp fictions of imperfection in their nip and tuck, chauffeur, news articles, reviews, and camera flashes, flashes, expensive tastes and questionable ethics.

Imperfect,

Tainted,

‘damaged goods’

after the party’s over

as if they would understand --- grocery shopping for chocolate at 2 am cuz im moody and sad, beer tasting, sweaty summer on the couch Netflix movie, rearranging the closet, changing pillow cases, throwing out old toothbrushes, cleaning the studio, and awakening in the middle of the night to look over and smile sleepily as we pull our bodies close--

for warmth,

for life.