You know I will praise you.
They’d better know that I love you.
I’m not the first,
and I won’t be the last.
It is no revelation.
I got it all. This complete package-
fixed in any way you may like it,
as long as you like it, I will be like this
clay in your hands. I’m not a puppet-
I’m a cash cow to guilty Hindus
and frustrated vegetarians
protecting my dignity
from the shameless paws
of invasive carnivores;
I’m not slaughtered in a child’s locket,
I’m pampered like steers in Japan
until I’m grinded when I lose it,
or else I’m immutable, conducting
as I dangle it for what it’s worth;
the time capsule that no one uncovers
documents in jpegs and glossy pages,
and melts into air before our eyes.
Born beneath the tree of life,
I’m the one bough spliced from retraces,
groomed in the seed husks of faded stars.
I can sing, I can dance, I am beautiful,
and talented. And I can keep losing weight,
each year that I grow.
If youthfulness is a sin, it is sin
you had wanted. So dress me in rabbit ears,
make the allusion come true,
pair it with fishnets, garnish with underwear
and, voila, my outfit for the next three years.
Some of my biggest supporters
have never heard me sing.
The real tragedy is locked inside
the ink barrel of somebody else’s pen,
until it’s my song.
And I will wear it, no matter-
as if it were always my very own.