softly swinging locks of

gradient blonde hair,

bleached like a beach sun but

so obviously “au-naturelle”,

smallish but not too small ever-perky

breasts leading onto luminescent tummy flat

as cardboard, affirming that

straight-line of skin connecting the two

hips that sexualize and vitalize

the delicate and unobtrusive yet noticeable

curve that ultimately breathes life into her infinite womanlyness

with a cock of her head we see the gentle slope

of her nose, it seems molded but not lumpy,

a wink of those impenetrable blue-gray crystal eyes and

a strong feminine jawline

lips full but not fishy, legs long but not lanky

she holds the complete textbook diagnosis of a woman

but we stand here and clasp our hands to our

too small or too large breasts

we feel the extra skin of our stomachs and

notice the small bulge about the pubic

bone, comprehend the straightness

of our hips not just with our eyes but our minds

this image of: woman is sketched onto our

skin from birth, black ink lines

defining the correct proportions

it’s written in Sharpie and we’re bleeding in

some places and we all have ink poisoning

our blood which feeds the brain and

our thoughts surround the thick black

lines which supposedly hold our

pasts presents and futures, the lines

that expose where we expand and

condense and misplace

the lines that end lives and accidentally start them

this WOMAN is forced in side of

our mouths choking us down

the second our vocal chords vibrate

and we can’t speak of any other

WOMAN except for this:

if we’re not WOMANLY we’re fat

we’re anorexic we’re ugly

if our skin doesn’t fit inside

the black chemical metaphorical

boundaries forget it, you’ll never be

her without knives and doctors and stitches and blood.

who holds the sharpie