MY FACE

is a trillion dollar industry, annually.

It carries more advertisement guilt than post-9/11.

My neck is a support beam bigger than Madonna’s shoulders.

My tongue’s gone into hiding

afraid it might be the next thing to get cut out

like chin fat and carbohydrates.

My spiritual deficit has tripled in size.

Stockbrokers would call it alarming.

God could call it the end of a lunch break.

Indian Nation would call it that bitch, Payback.

I have wrinkles at 22 years old

because they were pointed out to me in the first place.

For an unlimited time only

I can make ’em worse

with a lifetime supply of Diet Coke

and no self esteem.

My happiness comes for free with a mail-in rebate

more expensive than a president’s dreams.

I’ve got skin soothers,

blackhead removers,

night vision goggles

for detecting Charlie in the potholes of my pores.

It’s a war zone in my t-zone.

Neutrogena’s got the nuke.

My face runs its own nonprofit organization

to help my cheeks raise awareness

and fight laugh lines.

Your favorite tabloid is my philanthropist.

I subscribe to their eating disorder.

Get on my actress’s diet.

I’m trying to get back to my birth weight.

I pass it on to other girls so they can learn how to smile

with their rib cages, too,

how to go on a hunger strike in protest

of celebrity anorexia.

Because I am a giver

I share my trillion-dollar market

with the disheartened.

Bond with them

over falling apart.

It keeps us together like estrogen pills and age 60,

like a starlet and a fading star.

I am a giver.

I’ve got a 1.7 trillion dollar face.

It’s worth more than the fight against AIDS.

Been tucked more times than a model’s spine

between her legs.

Women’s rights look to my face for advice

on how to be uptight.

I am your embassy of Product Placement.

Wear me, little girls.