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
pillbox-coffins on my desk;
slim-chokered everwhite necks;
the masturbatory poems I write
from my anguished
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)
of a girl, I am.