Barbie’s Confrontation Dreamhouse
Inhabiting a space of sandpaper
pissed off would be a nice change. I can’t
fathom how to grow tiny daggerstones
into my countenance, but I make mean
mental comebacks. My dearest hypothetical
is jackhammer sound ripping
ribbons through concrete. Larynx
charged with battery—enough volts
to damage trachea and sparring partner.
Amygdala Override—file under: renegade reactions—take hydrochloric responses & shove
them so far into subconscious that they chafe against superego. De-purse Pepto Bismol pink lip.
Fill pliable head with thoughts of being sexy doctor & sexy astronaut & sexy Susan B Anthony
to forcibly squeeze out irritants. Meld four surrounding digits into springloaded middle finger
& ensure that feet are too small, too soft, too stiletto-ready, to kick any ass. Keep composed.
I eye Skipper,
but contempt is hard
to manage with joy-painted
eyes. Through gapless
teeth, I cuss her
out, but my argument,
like my molded pink
plastic oven, or Fuchsia Summer
Fun Party Jacuzzi, lacks real
heat. I move to chuck my ultraviolet
vase at her, but the base
stuck: melded to my vanity.
Unopposable thumbs struggle to pluck
day-glo-green pansies, sharp
enough to puncture rubbery
face flesh, but this entire god
damned mansion is baby proofed.
Andrea Springer is a senior English major at SUNY Geneseo. She will be attending the University of Rochester in the fall to pursue a Master’s degree in Adolescent English Education with a specialization in literacy. She recommended a book to Matthea Harvey once and still writes about the moment in her diary.
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