From Girl In A Box: Jeanine Campbell: Siren's Silence Vol.2 No.3

I'm a girl in a box, yup, that's me, here I sit seven hours a day, five days a week in a chemical fog, peering out of the windows of my glass box, my 12-by-12 crystal cage a caged girl with a painted porcelain face contorted in a Revlon death mask I sculpt daily from cosmetics I shop-lifted from Rite-Aid, under my Cleopatra sex-goddess wig that glints glossy and unreal under the neon lights where I turn and burn into crystal, into a glass mummy who rots the minutes and hours away in the girlie zoo, wrapped in swaddling lacy underthings. I'm moon drunk from the bee-stings that cover my arms, sometimes nodding but mostly awake staring at myself with mascara eyes that smolder in the mirror and day-dreaming under the glare of the red bulb that illuminates my cell, imprisoned by the 24-hour stare of that crimson sun which never sets and follows each orgasm I fake, a sun that mocks me as I pose in the window where I watch each anonymous men tread the waxed floors munching on candy bars or smoking cigarettes as they gawk all of us good girl animals of Al's Triple XXX theater who smirk and tap on the windows with fat knuckles begging CHOOSE ME! CHOOSE ME! Not me. I wait, the queen bee with my dope-sick patience, well-trained, house-broken, my mirror me watching, freezing into a wicked, wicked witch baby, a white-trash ice queen, eyeing Dee-Dee, the fake redhead coke-head in the booth across from me with basilick eyes as she strikes her syphilitic supermodel pose from better and younger days, beckoning with her "yen" sigh and spacey eyes, her rolls of fat becoming lazy, voluptuous as she wraps a boa around herself taut like a telephone wire, communicating something no one will ever hear...