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.
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