If Barbie could speak instead of be spoken for, what would she say? She would be a single mom, a rock star, a cancer patient, a survivor. Enter her world in snapshots of her private thoughts and realize she is no doll.
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Porcelain Fabergé Imperial Splendor Barbie
scrawls in her journal,
I have given up before the day has
as she drinks a dirty martini with three olives
and eats the toothpick
hoping it will puncture her pancreas
which will slowly leak out
from between her perfect legs.
She gets dressed, laces up her corset,
smoothes on her gown, but feels anything
but lavish and regal.
She wants to crumple the velvet,
smash her porcelain face.
All day she waits,
but Ken never calls.
So she flips on the TV
and watches HBO hating
Julia Roberts’ perfect wide mouth
and long red dress in Pretty Woman
because no one is that beautiful.
She picks the pearls off her dress
and pulls the rock off her finger
because he is not showing up in that white limo.
Then she watches as her fabric unravels
and her earrings unfasten
all pearled up and dropping
one and then the other
into her gin.