I do not want a fashion designer

 

I want a goddamn engineer

to make the speed of my curves rival that of the autobahn

 

I want an interior designer

to mold my frame with gold lame

 

I want a mathematician

to calculate the exact type and tautness of my fabric

so that when I strut I get exactly .25 rps (ripples per second)

anything more than that would cost the voyeurs extra

 

I want a chemist

to observe me from sunrise to sunset

manufacturer the perfect color to offset

my skin from bedroom to deskjob to blowjob and back again

 

I want a visual artist

that works exclusively with billboards or at least the broad sides of buildings

to make a pattern so bold that foundations crumble under the weight of it

 

and I want fucking pockets

 

I’ve given my power to the wrong people

they’ve crossed my lines and erased them

leaving only a narrow slice of what beauty, fashion and originality can be

they challenged me to dance on this garrote tightrope

the challenge is not mine

the challenge is theirs

to bend

to yield

to be submissive to my bounty

conscious of my curves

 

i do not want a fashion designer

set on razing this land or recreating it in their image

I want an innovator, a map maker, an explorer to chart this untamed wilderness

and attempt show all its wonder to the world