So they say I’m a quiet one.

[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]

It’s true.
This little mouth does not say much.
I chew on my opinions until they've lost their flavor.
I only own up to feelings if I get them down on paper.
What goes in, you see,
doesn't always need to come out.  

But just because my lips aren't constantly quivering with
quips and quotes
                       and qualms  
                                        and questions
about this world and everything in it,
doesn't mean
that these lips
can’t.

See, my psyche, she’s like an organic centrifuge—
Spinning so fast—she only appears to be standing still.
Spinning so fast—she doesn't have time
to make the connection from mind to mouth.
Spinning so fast—she’s silently grateful
that those hovering thought bubbles
can’t exist in reality.

Honestly, if they could,
she’d be royally ******.

I’d love to slow her down.
I’d love to turn her off.
But the power switch has been broken since 1988,
when all of the muddled beauty in this world
came barreling toward her all at once,
and the switch snapped.

She’s been turned on ever since.

[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]

There’s just not enough time
for me to flesh out everything on my mind.
Oxygen is precious,
and they keep cutting down trees.
I won’t waste my breath—
I’m okay with keeping quiet.

I've found that
just because they can hear you
                                  *doesn't mean they’re listening.

Dear NASA,

I read somewhere that voluptuous women
do well in zero-gravity environments.
This makes complete sense to me
(and the “ladies.”)
Trust me, I've seen the pictures—
and we want that.

Hear me out.

Gravity's a drag.
Bras are too ****** expensive.
I feel like I’d manage to look twenty-five
for another twenty-five years
if I could somehow
avoid the sandbaggage
that I'm doomed to inherit.

It's a comfortable thought
to picture the once distressed,
top-heavy lady population
floating in ecstasy,
brassiere-less and beaming—
soaking in a  freedom so sweet
that a word just couldn't do it justice.

I think I speak for the whole
of my curvy comrades  
when I say that we'd appreciate
your cooperation in getting the lead out
as you breach the final frontier.

Because let me level with you:
there are plenty of things in this world
that can bring a girl down—
our most enjoyable assets
should not be two of them.

Please join us in the fight to stay ****.

With the warmest gratitude,

B

Nevermind the obvious quirks in my physique—
the thick thighs,
short legs,
t-rex arms,
and that ample, curvaceous figure of mine
which I own and work every day.

[Listen,
I'm certain I could get into the glitter—
no doubt I would have a killer stage name—
I figure I’d get pretty used to the instant gratification—
and there's no doubt in my mind
that whatever I lack in grace and *** appeal,
I could make up for in
charm, wit,
and a cuteness that I'm still growing into.]

But see, I have a slight fear of wearing heels.
It's safer for everyone if I stick close to the ground.
And although swinging around a pole
seems like a good time,
my motion sickness would probably kick in
and I'd ralph hard
on at least one of my investors.

Aside from the faulty mechanics I'd bring to the profession,
I've got my own rationale.

I like knowing
that when my clothes come off,
it's for reasons larger than money.
I like knowing
that I've left a little to the imagination
and can unleash it at my leisure.
I like knowing
that my secret weapons of mass seduction
are, in fact, secrets.
I like knowing
that I still have something to blush about
when I think about how I spent my Saturday night.

Nah,
I could never be a stripper,
but hot ****,
do I enjoy perfecting the art
of smiling while naked.

“You’re only human.”
That’s how they try to calm me
when I teem with green and
clench my teeth and fists—

because ******* I just want to be wanted that way.

But you’ll give me silence,
followed by stillness,
which leaves me no choice
but to unravel at your feet.

“What a beautiful piece of work,” you’ll say.
“They don’t make them like that anymore,” she’ll add.
You’ll smile and nod in agreement,
and she’ll take your arm.

That there? That’ll be a pretty picture—
one for the magazines or even
the silver screens.

Just please remember to tread lightly
when you bring your eyes forward,
and walk right over me.

If I called all of your bluffs out loud,
we’d be here for months, and
my voice would waste away
to a bitter nothing.

But I need these pipes, and
ain't nobody got that kind of time to spare.  

So I’ll smile and quietly
call each of those bluffs to myself.
In gentle whispers, I’ll trim the fat,
and slowly examine the parts of you
that make sense.

I’ll soon notice that
my salt pile’s used up from taking a pinch
with each and every thing you say.
I would replenish it, but
I’m feeling too cheap, and
it seems the rest
of the sweethearts out there
need those grains more than I do.

Don’t you worry though—
this kind of cheap looks good on me.
See, I am so sick of being thirsty
and aching for that
truth
like
honey.

Last night I lived in a place
where every person communicated
in slam poetry.

We threw the truth out there
beautiful and bare—
clarity in metaphor.
The words charmed even the few
that found their niche
in refusing to listen.

No sweet tooth for sugarcoats—
we devoured in transparency.
The right words flowed steadily
out of our mouths
and seeped down our chins—
like we were born to do it.

Every expelled word
gingerly painted by way
of our eager tongues
and thirsty lips.
What we had to say
could be stopped by nothing.

Now,
imagine my disappointment
when I woke up
and couldn't even find the courage
to tell you
                      *“good morning.”