I am the clatter of stilettos on concrete, The sheen of glittering clothes, Bathrooms foggy with hairspray and perfume, The pink ribbon tangled in your hair, Threaded between your teeth.
I am your arms the color of the moon, Your eyes the color of the rain, Your shaking bones disguised by sunlight.
I lurk in the shadowy corners of the makeup aisle, In the dark recesses of the scale, In the hidden folds of closet and catalog.
I am the five pounds That, if lost, would make you so much more attractive. I am the five pounds That, if gained, would make you so much healthier.
I am the beautiful pale boyfriends you crave, The guilty indulgence of chocolate, The worn pages of Cosmo and Seventeen.
I will not kiss other girls if there are no boys watching. I am not fat, but curvy. I am not Black, but exotic. I am not Latina, but fiery. I am not Asian, but submissive.
The scars ground into my skin Are shallow enough to be covered with makeup. I am your lips the color of war, Your jeweled eyelashes, The pink tumors just under your skin, ready to burst. I am your polished nails And lacquered skin.
I am unworn lingerie, Unwanted subscriptions to debt and poverty, The rallying cry of the unheard.
I am a coping method, The path of least resistance, The revolution that no one needed, The degradation you’ve come to love, The small smile hiding the outrage You never meant to feel.
More articles in WMC FBomb by Category: Arts and culture, Feminism
More articles in WMC FBomb by Tag: Activism and advocacy, Poetry