If my anxiety disorder let me go to clubs, I’d be the overly supportive white girl in the bathroom. 

I’d french braid your glittered hair as you bare 

your heart to a toilet seat, spill your secrets 

and half-digested Taco Bell into the holiest of waters,

turn the shit-stained stall into a confessional worthy 

of our dirtiest sins. 

 

I’d fire tampons over stalls with the world’s smallest t-shirt cannon, 

offer mints at the door with condoms and pepper spray

(protection comes in many forms).

 

I’d switch shoes with anyone complaining about blisters—

start with flats and trade for increasingly taller heels, 

turn into a PornHub ad for growing five inches overnight. 

 

I’d convince every panic attack that the thumping bass 

was a heartbeat; the strobe lights, a beacon coaxing

wayward sailors home. 

 

I’d read hot sauce compliments to every passerby, 

give you the words I am not ready to hear.

 

Self-Portrait as Barbie

Accessories include:

unwashed gray sweatpants

a hot pink hoodie with Edward Cullen’s face on it

glasses with the strongest prescription you’ll ever see

an English degree (MFA sold separately) 

imposter syndrome

temporary tattoos of Jeff Golblum’s face to cover her scars

Cymbalta

beef with the old white man in her poetry workshop

a strong opinion about Rupi Kaur

an obsession with the moon

12 missed calls from her mom

Generalized Anxiety Disorder

a tinier Barbie doll with tinier issues and even tinier pills