The grimmest girl sets a hand on her head

  To keep steady as she works through it all,

  Sell every hour for a check ‘til you’re dead,

  Give it up so you can live within walls.

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  Gender and sex and expression and more,

  Fashion and access and tricks of the trade,

  Change how you feel until everything’s sore,

  Someone said that’s how a woman is made.

  Too poor to be chic, too mean to be cute,

  And she’s the scowling, unsatisfied type.

  Body by retail has made her a brute,

  So what the hell can she do, except gripe?

  The wind blows a hollow note through her purse,

  And she thinks- if it’s this bad, I’ll be worse.