“Girls are not machines
that you put kindness coins into
And sex falls out” — Sylvia Plath
We’re more like the crane games
on a Jersey Shore boardwalk
Hands maneuver our hands
towards visible prizes
and treasures hidden in plastic shells.
If what we have for grabs is too heavy
the plushness slips through fingers,
weakened and rigged by the deceit of others.
Still, these hands keep rolling quarters of promises
into our waiting gaps,
the lights and sounds fill the quiet, dark
corners where we like to hide, waiting to see
how hard this one and that one will try
to catch our IPod hearts with irascible playlists –
to win our unicorns stuffed with everything
nobody else wants to know.
Doors
Serotonin with a side of fries, please 