I am a “what.”
The media asks “what” I am wearing.
I am photo shop.
Clever wit on Twitter, one forty letters or less.
I am nameless.
A face he sends Snapchat nude requests
when his girlfriend’s cross country
and he needs release.
I am legs,
breasts peeking out from a V-neck black dress.
I am impractical red heels.
Dark lipstick smeared on my chin after too many cocktails.
I am collapsed at the toilet.
Weeping after he found another nameless face.
She answered his sultry questions with more wit than I.
I wake in a stupor of “What have I done?”
when the question should be