Ken

by Savannah Stuitje

I liked you because you were the ken doll I wanted when I was little.
People say we marry our fathers, but it’s not true, we marry the
people that fit into the dry cleaners bag of the life we think we
want. We grow up and grow out our bangs and learn to drive but we
never leave the past behind us no matter how we fill out. You reminded
me of tan lines and cheerleader skirts and prom dresses, stereotypes
no one is supposed to want. We came together at the stroke of twelve
like cake batter mixing. Mellowed out and willing to ride out any wave
that came at us simply because our schedules needed filling. Maybe if
we hadn’t found each other so quickly, it wouldn’t have gotten boring
so fast. Basking in your rays I could feel the heat of jealous eyes
sliding over me and maybe even leaving something different behind, the
most gorgeous tan. My ken doll, holding your plastic hand in the
hallway, the accessories you came with, cars and acknowledgments,
chocolate on Valentines Day. It’s too bad you didn’t come with a
matching heart and voice box too, but what can you expect from mass
produced perfection? It’s hard to come home to someone that isn’t home
but I wonder who stopped showing up first? You, with all your other
plans, or me, who always figured it was too good to be true.