Dear girl who I eye up and down and decide I wouldn't want to be friends with

Dear girl who I eye up and down and decide I wouldn’t want to be friends with,
your tripod hamstrings and bum breasts you look like a piglet on stilts.

I imagine at weekends you drip chin sick into cisterns
while the girl who will plan your hen party lopes your hair round her wrist
like a snake doing an impression of a curtain ring.
I imagine your imagination is a dusty truck
and your dreams trace ‘clean me’ into the routine of hair straightening,
bum bleaching and tweezing.
The type I tribe with, buy ‘Bitch’, keep their nails clipped,
introduce themselves by joking
‘hi, I make six foot paintings of fannies containing shavings of other peoples
pubic hair to protest against the phenomenon of Brazilian waxing,’

they send texts saying things like
‘the light is like honey in hot water,’
or ‘today while making an omelette
I decided to investigating freezing my eggs’.

But when we get on trains, we turn to one another
geisha lipped and admit we read Grazia,
watch Don’t tell the bride,
comb the aisles of chemists looking for the concealer which will blot out the blemishes.
Dear girl who I eye up and down and decide I wouldn’t want to be friends with,
I go to feminist karaoke, discuss Jessica Simpson buying hair extensions from third world countries, wear don’t even try to fuck me boots and a badge which says ‘I’m a hairy woman’ my pubes get the scent glands to make better pheromones.
But when the music kicks in
I just like singing about the pussy cat dolls
grinding car bonnets, club walls
and poles which look like they can hold my weight.
Turns out, I am shallow as a baking tray,
my insides are made of Supernoodles and nail polish,
my opinions are wire wool on genitals,
gender judgements are like dancing with scissors.