“I am perfect” she says
as she stands
jauntily before me
arms akimbo
head to one side

(But her head, oh the horror,
What misshapenness resides there)

“I am perfect” she says
as she looms above me
distended belly weaving
writhing
wriggling on her guise, ill-fitting
her tawdry guise of beauty

(A guise fashioned of saran wrap and scotch tape,
Attractive to a grocery cashier or homeless man, no other)

“I am perfect” she says
as the wind blows
against her clothes
pressing up against her skin
blue from the chill

her skirt slowly rising
to reveal her
squat
mutated
squarish legs
painted with the words
“I am perfect”