Is it dancing red dresses, pink sashes and strong hands sweeping you off your feet?
is it false eyelashes, fake boobs or padded push-up bras made to deceive how you once believed?
it three coasts of mascara? Lips lined and cheeks bronze?
is it a bad day when you look in the mirror to find your untouched, natural face un-glowing and porous?
is it high heel callouses and long walks, passing men who look thirsty,
blisters bleeding, running home fast, trying not to worry
is it fake tanner, sparkly glitter, g-strings or thongs
that ride the skin all day long?
does it pass men tight lipped, watch their eyes feast at the site of your round hips,
does it quiver in the night at the touch of your fingertips swimming down your perfectly shaved thighs?
are they separate from the other or do you weep in department store dressing rooms at the site of their close proximity?
If I wear a low cut shirt, is it an immediate invite for unwanted attention?
When I can’t ask a man a question without him losing himself in the sweat of my cleavage
Am I disappointed? Or just a disappointment?
A feminine woman,
allergic to men
and all their intentions
is a prisoner in question
Too femme to catch the eye of women on the street
a high-heeled, long walk home,
an invisible feat for such heavy feet.