Meter Monday: "Unpackaged"

by Alejandra Torres

I.

Pink is the house

In which she lives.

A cotton candy estate

Of limitless walls

Fashioned out of plastic and laughter

Adorned with ornamental swirls

And effervescent fingerprints

Whose tiny eager nails

Match the color of her dress.

A room with a caramel desk

An apple, glasses, chalk, a pen.

A blackboard with 2+3=

Surrounded by erased powdered giggles.

Countries silhouetted by empty, encouraging

words

In an ocean of blue on a map

That hangs on a miniature coral wall.

The Encyclopædia Britannica and Pride and Prejudice

Align the sparkly shelves.

Rosy lips that dream.

“You can be anything you want to be.”

A room of insignificant certificates, an allergic daze and purrs,

Echoed by the innocent laughter that makes the house dance.

Tools made for bite-sized hands

Lay on a sterilized table in the virgin abode.

X-rays of skeletal fantasies

Illuminate the hidden life that permeates throughout.

A scale scattered with artificial fur

Weighs weightless undernourished aspirations.

The tight stethoscope around her neck

Liberates her breath.

Rosy lips that dream.

“You can be anything you want to be.”

A roomless room

A rooftop scene.

A bowl-shaped helmet

Crowning her queen.

Her straight blonde hair

Tucked into the collar.

Her pale attenuated figure embraced

By her heavenly uniform,

Produced for a distinct uniformity:

One size fits all. Made in U.S.A.

Limited edition logo.

Her boots, meant to leave

Resounding lunar

Footprints...

Are muffled.

Rosy lips that dream.

Rosy lips that are clipped.

II.

Pink is the house

In which she no longer lives.

The rooms are covered in dust—

The fingerprints and laughter lost.

The estate made to stay in a state of subservience. smallness.

A rugged hand

With virile veins

And brawny claws

Crushed it.

Rose quartz shattered.

Limbs the color of Band-Aids naked.

Costumes and props boxed away—

Boxes without an owner’s name.

Mattel scratched out on her ass cheek

And replaced—

Possessed by a new three-letter m-word.

.78 for every 1 whole.

And the rest?

One rouge room remains intact

Wiped anemic—

Lysol not Neutrogena—

Color escaping through its opportunistic pores.

One with a sink

Full of dirty possession.

One with a fridge

Of icicled oppression.

One with a stove

Ablaze with ravenous defiance.

One with linoleum floors,

Tiles stained with yesterday’s layered misery.

Magenta lips that proclaim

“I will not be bound here.”