More than stick figure plus triangle,
this girl wears responsibility
like a straightjacket.
You don’t fool anyone. You’ll never float,
never wear a tie or go to war,
flex well-earned horizontal stripes.
Your traps are telling.
You’re only as good as your waist to hip ratio.
One size never fits all.
Standards so low, girl—
no more than man minus manhood,
you can’t hold yourself up by your legs.
You’re too busy counting freckles,
navigating charcoal and aerosol,
can’t stomach sleeping alone.
Of temperature: seasons of skin to skin contact
as basis for comparison. Of irony: sugar free
sugar daddy virtually acquired.
You’ve rubbed holes in the legs
that hold you, forgotten the women you’ve been—
their carbs and shame. Consolation,
the only way you know to be loved.