ID: A screencap of a poem, Staircase wit by Rhiannon McGavin. It reads:
It’s spring & everyone’s joking about killing themselves again. You’re getting better at moving through different cities without your eyes tapped to the blue dot of your being on the phone’s map. Anywhere you go it seems you just missed the cherry blossoms, dead receipts of petals on the ground, but you’ve never had a cleaner sense of direction. The cynicism has limped so far back around that you can take inspiration from hot sauce packets. You would like to live more. You’ve got a face to make in the mirror to check that you’re cute. You’re at the age where you explain your politics naked about once a week. You are of the age where the mass murderers also grew up with mass murder drills. Traces of carbon-14 thread the cells of everybody you’ve ever known & everyone you’ll never meet because you’re alive in the same world as atom bombs. You walk clutching your own hand like a splintered banister. Born as you were into real life at the top of the century, the future’s headlines rise as water or ash or something else hard to breathe through. You know what to say now. You’ve heard it’s too late.
Bad news, cause OP either didn’t know or chose to be vague about it: It’s not an ACTUAL Barbie doll, it’s part of an Argentinian art exhibit called Barbie: The Plastic Religion.
Just found out my facebook birding group is public because my cousin (a lawyer who is not into birds) casually said to me “saw you couldn’t identify a willet the other day… pretty embarrassing”
