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I wish I were a girl, her hair combed and curled. She's photo-ready, but only from her angle. Lash extensions, gel extensions, laminated brows, spray tans, full body waxing, all of it. She does all of it. She holds those big balloons on her birthday, slipping into a spandex dress. She is a pretty little thing. Open toed stilettos, white polish manicure. Concealer on her bruises, body shimmer on her shoulders. Highlighter above her Cupid's bow, on her brow bone and the tip of her nose. She drinks Prosecco in Spoons, she drives a Golf or a Mini or a Fiat but it has to be pristine. She puts her Dior saddle bag on the seat. iPhone, keys, finishing powder. She plays the newest music and she misses the club at all times. Do you never walk past that girl in Selfridges? She smells like Britney Spears perfume and I absolutely adore her. I love her. I think I'm in love with her? She tops up her Fenty lipgloss and I just gawk! I gawk and I gawk. She's soft. She's high femme. I want to walk into a room and someone goes, "God, she's fit! Go and ask for her number". And then I think about all the starlets who came before her. Hair quaffed in black and white glamour shots. A single spotlight over powdered skin. She enters the room and all men fall. A girl, a darling. I want to be high femme. I want to be high maintenance. Don't touch me, only look at me. I'm in awe of her gorgeousness and I can't decide if I want to be her or be with her. She is so pristine.

I Wish I Were a Girl


Published in Grief (In Few Forms)

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