4 foot 8, she walked in with a smile.
Lips cinched, eyes curled, she wore manufactured pride like a crown
Spine arched into roman bridges, tattered fringes sewn into photo-shopped angles for a body,
And she asked me, “Am I beautiful now?”
Slivers of light fall through her rib cage shedding strips onto the floor as she walks,
She thinks they’re beautiful.
She doesn’t know it but I count her bones like she counts calories
Purchasing guilt with each consumed gram of fat as if that
Was a sacred sentiment.
No safety in reflections, distorted perceptions of self in every mirrored glance.
A noose around her waist, she walks on hollowed thighs and bared chests.
I wish she sees what I see
A frame wearing the impression of deprecated worth she can only understand,
over a kitchen scale.
I want her to just close her eyes and see with her hands
I want her to feel the sharp cuts of her cheeks and the brittle vibrations of her heart beats
I want her to run her hands over her face and feel her finally exhaled breath of carbonic waste,
Clipping her waist into paper shapes
Eyes closed, seeing herself for the first time, I’d tell her how ugly carcasses are
And how beautiful she will always be,
That curves and flesh are how we know where to hold onto when we embrace.
Chocolate tastes too good to be place-holders, or book covers,
Not to be read or be uncovered but to be eaten, when we remember
That life isn’t a math equation for caloric intake or an algorithmic procedure.
I’d tell her all the clichés and mother’s tips.
Tell her that we all come with broken baggage,
Bruises covered with hand sewn bandages,
Hoping to supplement imperfection with man-made seduction.
That being a woman is dirty business but being a girl,
Is just hard.
Then I’d tell the 25 year old spirit shoved into an 8 year old cast
That she is everything, and more,
Than just a beautified reflection of who she is expected to be.
I’d tell her that I love her.