It should not alarm you that I despise
something other than myself. I’m not
a feminist for nothing or else all those Tori
Amos songs taught me zilch about owning
a vagina. Yeah, sometimes I peruse through
the make-up aisle and think about lip gloss
and how nice it would be to dab its glistening
guarantee of sex on my dry mouth. But then
I remember that when I turn my head too fast
my hair sometimes gets stuck in this new cosmetic
radiance on my face and I want to go back to the bare
essentials of my own matte lips. I have always loved
experimenting with you and your love for me.
You always tease me about my reflection
and how you catch me looking at it after a bath--
how I still turn sideways and suck in my tummy,
how I won’t dye my hair, but I still paint my nails.
I look forward to the day when I can like the thought
of liking myself without the need for any woman
with unshaved or plastic body parts to tell me
what I should be. I wonder what the first woman
was like before other women came along. I wonder
who told her how to be?
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