It Girl

I’m a performer, a show.

A dancer singer storyteller magician actress

For a crowd of thousands or few

I’m an object made for viewing,

Imagining, touching,

Imagining touching,

Especially for you,

To mold me, to carve your name

Into my ribs in front of the mirror

And dress me up just because

I’m your sweet and pink and pretty

Lemonade in the summer,

The taste on your tongue

Fleeting but recurring

Your Sunday matinee with curtains drawn

And I’m out in the open

That big wide stage that never ends

And once you’ve had your fill, you leave,

But the show goes on and on and on and

I’m frozen in the spotlight that never turns off

Even when the seats are empty

And I’m all alone

In my big wide world

That belongs to you

. . .