Wednesday, May 13, 2015

that time



His few inches more that he brags
Are your few spare you abhor.
You can never be on the same page,
Let alone, the same shore.
And it is time now to be thrown on stage,
Under the judging sun and his dissecting rays
Revealing flabby tummy, varicose veins,
Cellulite, to the tiniest imperfection
-gravity unwilling to let you grow another direction.
Cause that is the way it is, I am afraid.
None cares how many of them you've laid,
Carried and breastfed. Irrelevant detail.
Put the skinny cloth that outlines your ripe peach
And pretend you are having loads of fun at the beach.
Lie down, lie still, do not breathe much,
And loathe the teenage girls swaying their tiny ass.
And when it is time for the heroic task
To cross the endless, hostile desert patch
-The barren land between your towel and the sea-
Make it snappy and make sure none will see.
Inhale deeply, hold breath, make your belly look thin,
Do not exhale before you are safely in.

It makes no difference if you know nobody.
Everyone is a self-acclaimed critic of your body.
Because it is this time and that's the way it is,
For women to be self-aware and never at ease.


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