i watch her. the way her knees bend and hips sway. the dips and curves contrasting the straight edges. she doesn't have a big chest or ass or, actually she doesn't have a big anything. she doesn't jiggle as she moves and the only bounce is the pep in her step. but she dances. she took their words of discouragement, telling her she's too much or too little and twisted and contorted them into the happy tune she plays in her head. she's happy. she's soft. she's pure. and she's sweet, none less than a peach. she's beautiful, stunning, hot, and sexy - every cliché compliment given to a girl, every cliché catcall they reserve for "whores". but even then, their words do not affect her for the one hyping her up is the one staring back at her in the mirror. she's done it. she has learned that she is so much more than their expectations, that she is her. and she, no i, love myself.
i love me.
09.22.19
YOU ARE READING
ken
PoetryI completed I ken /k e n/ n. 1. one's range of knowledge or sight. ❝you're a ghost boy completely translucent your bones, your flesh they've all completely faded into the death of a story a tragic story titled love ❞ ➸ a collection of handwritt...
