When I was
14
I discovered that I loved
to play dress up.

Femininity embraced me.
Daddy judged me.

I wanted to be beautiful
like Tyra Banks,
Julia Roberts, and Katherine Heigl.
I didn’t understand that there were
200
pounds separating us.

I smeared covergirl
EVERYWHERE
because I believed it had magical
powers.
powers that could dispel
any of the dirty thoughts my peers had
injected into my veins.
powers that could wipe away
the control my Daddy had over my
decisions to wear short skirts.
powers that would make me a size
2
instead of a size
24.

I did understand that I needed
Lipstick.

Lipstick tells no lies
It runs red as the blood
I bleed to know I’m alive.
Lipstick covers those pouty
sexy
sardonic
lips that I have wrapped around
your cock.
Lipstick that whispers in your ears
that I’m okay living alone
and far away.
Lipstick that smears when I’m beaten
broken
bruised.

Lipstick, I never wanted in the first place.

———————————————————-

Can you tell I’m a woman
with my hose
hem lines
and lipstick?
Am I more of a woman
because I weigh
twice as much?
Am I less of a woman
because my heels
drag the ground?

Why do you define me,
even now
when I’m
24
years old?

Fuck.
You.

I am all woman.
Lipstick, Hem Lines, Fat, Glasses,
Vagina, Toes, Hair, Eyebrows.
Every inch
of my body
could not be any more
woman.