A variety of plastic faces- plastic lipsticks
the color of cherry candy;
eyes a piercing blue,
electric, unrelenting,
make you want to not be you,
kind of ocean eyes.
Innumerable pairings of tiny tanktops
and flowery shorts;
a girl’s wardrobe aspirations,
a few sizes too small.

I became enchanted by Barbie,
brushing her artificial blonde hair,
choosing her fashionable outfits.
Skimpy dresses
adorning elongated sticks,
sunglasses,
not meant to shield the sun.
Value in looks
over enlightenment;
knowledge unimportant
in the shadow of branding.

Never would I imagine I’d be the type
who looks up to Nancy Pelosi;
Nancy Pelosi, with dull, burnt caramel eyes,
crow’s feet in the hollows of her cheeks,
adorns professional attire,
not dressed in tiny tanktops
or floral shorts.
Nancy Pelosi,
without an empty headed gaze
and shiny plastic lips
who punches out politics
instead of beating her doll face with makeup.
Kathrine Switzer,
with a pair of running shoes
and ambition,
sweating through women’s first
Boston Marathon.
Boudicca,
The Celtic Queen,
declaring invasion of the Romans,
fighting for lost freedom,
her bruised body,
and her outraged daughters.

Marie Curie,
Anaïs Nin
Sacajawea.
Was it Barbie
who led the way through
unknown land,
carrying a baby on back?

Gloria Steinem,
Cleopatra,
Mother Teresa.
Was it Barbie
who founded the Missionaries of Charity,
and devoted every moment of her life,
every breath emitted from her lips,
to serving others?

You can become infatuated,
lust after,
and want to own beauty.
You can love it with your eyes,
crave it from your body,
and try to grasp it with all you have left,
but it will fall through the gaps of your fingers
that you desperately try to hold
tighter.
You can never connect physicality
with the heart.
It was never Barbie.
And I never was.