She glides through the streets,
balancing on heels to high,
a bar set too low.
A smile so practiced it almost seems genuine,
lip gloss to sweeten the words lacking smartness,
topped with a pretty lace bow.

A skirt ready for men to crawl into,
a dollar bill peeps from the padding of her bra.
Skinny naked arms squeeze across her chest
making her cleavage a god to be followed,
but not a goddess,
because goddess implies woman
and woman implies weak.

She would never tell you that though.

The hairspray crinkles in her hair
as she talks about discrimination, equality, segregation.
Feminist
reads the tag
she imagines on the breast of her low pink v-neck.

Her label really reads poser,
hypocrite, dumb-ass, kiss-ass, piece of ass
because when stands up and talks about
her rights as a twenty-first century American woman,
all people see is the skirt
that peeks out beneath her bare skin.

When she says that gender and sexuality
are no excuse for discrimination,
people hear her false sugar voice say the word ‘sexuality.’
They mostly hear the root word ‘sex’
and they start to wonder
if this girl is really as easy
as her slut-red nail polish suggests.

She is the kind of girl
who will wear stilettos to a high school English class
and then complain about the objectification of women.
She has multiple guys for each day of the week
but, god-forbid, if a guy calls her a whore,
he is sexist.

I am not saying I support sexism,
or that I particularly dislike sluts,
but I dislike the way that sexuality
is the isolated variable around which this girl defines herself.

Her cover contrasts so obtusely with her story,
which contrasts as well with the title she claims.
She tried to light her stage with individuality,
but the eyeshadow and ideas clashed to strongly
so she is left with a white-out of ignorance and insecurity.

She is a girl who attempted to create herself
around the unrealistic ideals
implemented from the media’s definitions of a woman.
She never found the woman in those definitions though,
she only lost herself.