PINK PANTHER —
she thinks, she knows she is so little, but she lays next to a porcelain white doll image of herself and she wants to be ceramic. always falling, easy to break, walking on eggshells and slipping on the slippery golden yolk of what could've been a mother's child. she wants to feel the skin, to touch the bones through her back and her arms. she wants to be as easy to pick up as the doll, at a light weight of no less than five pounds, for her skin to be so closed in on those bones that she could maybe be as cold as the doll each time her blackened, singed hands grazed the skirt she wore. she wishes she were pale like porcelain, that her thighs wouldn't stick together. she pours out her heart to her hot pink nintendo dsi and asks her mother for a new body every christmas. she is like a hot biscuit to touch- burns the fingers on the surface, lukewarm and chewy on the inside with honey drizzled on top. and some days, she doesn't wish, she kills every ounce of dignity remaining, and pictures her fall backwards off the brick building, and she is no more, but with that image in mind she is everything.
