I was born in 1985.
I apply four layers of eye makeup
before I go out each day,
but if I want to put on eyeliner, my brother does it for me.
I had to work today, one of my two jobs.
I’m a telemarketer, earning a wage.
In my break, I sat directly across from the cinema,
where I saw girls with perfect hair,
wearing ultra mini-skirts and tea-towel tops,
and I wished that I could dress like that.
(I could, but I wouldn’t have the nerve).
In contrast, I was wearing a man’s blue jeans,
and a man’s white shirt
and runners that are stuck together with silver tape.
Unlike all these other clones,
there were fifty yards between my mobile phone and I.
I’m twenty years old.
When I grow up, I want to be a writer.
But sometimes I wish I want a stable career.
I wish that I’m living away from home.
I wish that I have confidence.
I wish that I haven’t got dark circles under my eyes.
I wish I got those braces when I was seven.
I wish I’m not so underweight.
I wish I’m not a virgin.
I wish that my boobs were bigger,
but I don’t want unnecessary surgery.
Perhaps one day I’ll be my run-down, NYC apartment;
taking drugs and inhaling smoke in my lungs;
having a girlfriend and a boyfriend at the same time;
earning money by writing best-sellers
and still listening to David Bowie.
Hopefully I’ll be happy then,
but when I eventually admit it to myself,
I’ll know I’m happy as I am.
I’ve got a better way.