When you are a woman
With a man
You cannot say to him:
Oh, your belly is actually quite round
Or
I don’t like that hairy pimple
And
You can’t point out
That his breath smells
Or
That you wish he chose nicer clothes
And
Cared more about how he looks
If only just for you
You can’t expect him
To care like you do
To display the neurosis you have
About your own body
Your body
Which is ever so wrong always
With every pore
Mapped
Every hair
Removed
Every fat cell
Shamed
Every jiggle
Noted
Every blemish
Squeezed
Every muscle overworked
In a vain attempt to sculpt
Your body
Your self
Into some semblance
Of conformity
While you willingly perform hypocrisy
And self-hatred
To dutifully do your womanly thing
And say
As expected
And as you have been trained:
That’s OK honey
I love you just as you are
You are so beautiful
While feeling like an ugly lump
Yourself
A collection of disparate parts
Fragmented flaws
Discombobulated limbs
Desecrated organs
Surrounded by deadly fatty pillows
All wrong
You are all wrong
And-nobody-will-want-to-fuck-you-and-you-will-die-an-old-maid-you-ugly-hag
But he is all right
He is gorgeous
No matter if it’s the truth
Or not

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