after Franny Choi
Take black girl, give her a shot of collagen, bee-stung lips
Sit pretty.
pouting like preteen pop songs. Sew rows of extensions to her honey hair, sticky and European. So sweet, those locks beg to be licked and touched.
Nip and tuck.
Run white hands through crinkly, curly weave, make this make-believe beauty more ambiguous, add more layers of mismatched culture swap.
Eyes must not be slanted, nor almond, nor fish— more wide-eyed Barbie, store-bought baby doll. Her head—pink shell holding bubblegum sweet center— make her thoughts chewable.
Must have: arms pecan-colored, never darker than almond or lighter than butter cream. Cinch her waist, 20-inch hips, a disappearing rib cage.
Make her face corpselike, but keep her back arched and buns tight.
Suck it in. Smile—don’t turn blue.Never turn blue.
Make sure she can breathe through her slender-nosed nighttime fantasy.
Never a bride, always a wet dream.
Bet you can’t guess where she’s from, always a spray tan away from being minority. Perfectly exotic,
perfect little alien,
pretty little other to plaster and paint on their ad, spit shine her and sell like souvenir.
Dress her up in a tutu and make her eyes bright colors. Make her breasts balloonpoppable, legs pinned up like streamers.
Light the fireworks, post her on Twitter. Fill her head with likes and self-loathing until all of her fades.