There I stand, in the midst of
lovers and friends –
Jeering, gesturing, lecturing
Matter-of-factly, sadly explaining
That I will never be
A Real Woman.
Bright images glare
Of impossible thinness,
Wasted cheeks
Glow with wanton deprivation.
I pinch, I jab, I shear it away
and perhaps, finally find
A Real Woman.
All pride forgotten, my heart
Staked to the ground,
I vainly hope as they squeeze and tease
My hair, my breasts,
my waist, my heart
into the perfectly-sized bundle of
A Real Woman.
Of Ink and Coffee 