Her home is a tupperware container.
Sealed away at night, she shines all day. Fresh
as the day’s catch. She knows love is the answer,
the panacea for each imagined illness, the final
product she was built for.
Each morning she activates, exfoliates,
puts on her best face – just in case –
always ready for the first date to take
her place in his arms…
once she meets him.
For love she starves herself,
works out (though never in),
wears clothes she’s told by magazines
stresses between a pink or polka-dotted dress.
Lost to love before it’s found,
she doesn’t know the face behind the mask.
Gears turn to tilt porcelain just so,
but when he asks who she is
she only smiles, confounded by the task.
Debbie dreams of Stepford
without irony, only knows herself
in terms of family. She was not built
to be both alone and awake,
only sitting standby on the shelf.