I wish I felt like a milkshake.
Sweet and frothy
and just a little retro.
I would stroll out of MacDonalds,
burger in hand,
bony hips wriggling in low-cut skinny jeans,
exchanging fake air kisses with sleekly groomed darlings.
The kind of girl who makes builders whistle
and spotty teenage boys blush,
changing her clothes as often as her make-up
and slipping out of both with equal ease.

Time to leave,
I crush the half-empty can of Mountain Dew in my hand,
its saccharine glow hiding an acid kick
almost as sharp as the tongue
that flicks from between my bitten lips.
The type of girl whom spotty teenage boys
confide in, who can walk past building sites
in comfortable anonymity
and will not shed her clothes
even in front of the mirror.

Falling out of pyjamas and into spray-on jeans,
climbing onto heels and applying 'Milkshake Girl'
with painstaking care
I saunter out onto the street.