I call you Barbie

Yeah, I remember you from high school,
and I didn't like you then.
I see you haven't changed
obviously, I'm no longer emo or goth or
whatever label you forced on my fashionable melancholy
you should know black goes with everything
but you're into white, aren't you?
bleached hair & teeth, fake-milk tits
that your husband gave in trade
for his four syllable name
I have not missed you.

I've seen you everywhere.

you still wear the word popularity
like I wear the word accountability
I never found you charming
Even now, after years
I want to break open that polite smile
that daddy bought you with lies
placed on your face the day he named you princess
never told you no, because he thought that was love
what a pretty sociopath you've become
It's my pleasure to tell you a world of no.

No, I will not be your fake-baking buddy
at your favorite skin cancer booth
because hanging out with me would be your pity-deed
& rotting from the outside in
does not a fun sunday make.
It's called Sunday, you know,
like, omg after that big bright thing in the sky
one of the few things daddy couldn't buy you

No, I will not be your shopping pal
because my style is still my own
and afterall, I'm a thriftstore whore
that 3rd world boy who worked fingers to bone
to knit your seafoam cardigan,
should've spent his day playing outside instead
I'm not an advocate for growing up quickly,
but you should consider it.

No, I will not be the one
you bring to church this month
because my church is everywhere
and I will not go to a place of hate
to watch ventriloquist bigots
talk for god

I won't even donate to your atrocity
a skyscraping reminder of Jesus' least favorite days
like he's going to see it and return
see it and thank you for spending so much
on advertising your guilt
and not spending even a thought
on the hungry or the homeless


It isn't all your fault
they've rubbed you raw with class
so you'd glow pretty
I know we are all blessed with strange talents
mine is not knowing when I've said too much
and yours has been to look good
without thinking too much
I see crimson blood dripping from your credit cards
I can't tell if it's middle-eastern or american
because to me, it's the same color
you've eaten your truth- that war is necessary,
only it doesn't happen in your salon booth
which is filled with so many just like you
and they're pumping oil into your sparkly SUV
and money into your mister's mastercard
why bother with 300 missing girls
with those who are far away and fighting
just fighting not to die?

So, TV-fed stereotype that I wish didn't exist,
sometimes justice is not polite
sometimes it's a rude slap in the face
from an introvert who no longer has the luxury
of being apathetic to your ignorance
I'm trying to show you that you have a choice
& I'm not talking about what you think of sexual orientation-
a choice that goes beyond what you wear
I'm trying to show you that you can be
more than a lesson for my son
of who not to become.