She has become
more like me.
The one I hated
for the perfect body,
absent of excess fat,
face full of a
plastic smile.
Her hips have spread
and the thickness or her thighs
appeals to my sense of justice.
Pointy, perfect breasts
have flattened to dullness,
now a disappointing,
realistic size.
Deciding to take
her back,
grabbing her
broken body,
rescuing her from
certain isolation,
I cradle her,
damaged goods that she is.
My
trash
compactor
Barbie.
© 2001 Patricia Emerson Mitchell