This Poem Is Pointless

 

Why don’t I just upload

a tearful selfie to Instagram?

It’d get more likes if my mascara was

running but (I don’t know how to put on makeup

And have I mentioned that I don’t shave my legs?)

Forget rinstas and finstas,

all I need is the app in my head

and my hundreds of hypothetical followers;

a Plath quote in my bio

(despite the irony, I still feel like a fraud)

prefacing reams of

squares:

scattered half-empty

pillbox-coffins on my desk;

slim-chokered everwhite necks;

the masturbatory poems I write

from my anguished

ever-inhabited bed.

I’d like them

if my thighs in the background were a bit thinner.

(I only like #bopo pics

out of some sort of feminist obligation;

thinking: I’d never let myself get to that)

Petulant petal

of a girl, I am.