You’re on trial period. They dress you
Up like a doll and really, what a uniform.
The girl you replaced
Thought her official title was “Barbie.”
It’s what they call you,
Whether customers are there or not.
You thought you’d be
You know they’re not paying you
For your brain, right?
You’re the prop in the window.
It’s a compliment!
And if you’d rather they see
Your bones than your flesh,
It’s not like they’re giving you a choice.
But you’re not porcelain anymore.
You knew it when they labeled you:
Baby girl, bitch, get your ass over here.
Or when they tried to get you drunk.
(Where do you think you’re going—
Don’t you want this job?)
You knew it when they’d touch and laugh and prod.
(A joke, relax. One day,
You’ll want them. Wait.)
They are right that there will be
Consequences. After all,
You are no man.