by Alicia Potee Listen. I was born from a plastic bag, pimped to life by a long pump of mechanical breath. Like you, but go ahead and think you’re better — than this rubber body, these double-dip breasts, vinyl hips and dummy thighs, banana sundae split, lips two fat cherries on top. Look how you’re stooped over slab, streetlight autopsists, snapping shots for laughs. Whose husband left you like this? My sapphire spider eyes won’t snitch. If names are punchlines, just know th