You want a Barbie girl
so you can move her laser thin legs how
you want. Hold her down and pin her
perfect plastic body.
Flaunt the false plasticity of
her waist and bum.
Rubber head full of air, thoughts forever numb.
After all, out of painted plump lips come no protests.
No whimpering distress when
her body you undress.
When you peel the Velcro open and hold
her still wrists.
“Stay this way forever”, you insist.
Dress her with feathery hats and kitty cats
and leather skirts so tight
her pseudo skin starts to hurt.
But her smile never fades
and the long blond hair
cascades, just how you like it
down her spineless back
in straight, straight waves.
She’ll do what you want
and does just what she’s taught.
Which is what you hoped for from the plastic
beauty you bought.
In impatience, you pull
hard and rough
but this bit of plastic isn’t tough.
Still you pull her again
until her legs are splitting
Make her twist and bend.
You applaud and cheer.
“Beautiful Barbie” you say, “You’re such a
In your puppeteer hands.
plastic morphing to every command.
A stiff body for your every demand.
Confused, you push my softness
but I don’t bend.
“Do as you’re told” you say,
but I sit when you say stand.
You tell me to be good,
and be the way you think I should.
But I can’t.
And I won’t.
So you pry and scream
and pull but I
I throw your hands away.
“I’m not your Barbie Girl” I say.
Aubrey has her BA in Creative Writing, and is an avid hiker and travel addict. She is happiest in an airport, leaving an airport, or heading in the general direction of an airport. Her previous work has appeared in the Kolob Canyon Review Literary Journal, issues 2014-2018.