merry mundane

Work, work, work. Two thirty to ten thirty every day. Sometimes I just want to quit, but I hear money's nice. I wish things were easier.
On another note- Happy Solstice, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, and all that. Here's a poem.


Falsies.
Long and dark and dramatic- like us.
Fuchsia and lime green lips open and close
And talk like chocolate pudding.
Our dresses muffle the sound of our
Growling, groaning stomachs
And we pose. Smile.
Clicking pumps against the marble floors
We are goddesses.
We are worshiped in Vogue and Elle
And no one will forget us.
We have been cemented.
Full skirts with floral patterns on our ribs and
Tiny little laxatives in our colon.
We are perfect.
The click, click of the cameras
Reminds us that we are more real than
Those running errands on the streets,
Running around in circles on their feet-
We are worshiped.