Why do you think society expects you to
1. Dress the same
2. Talk the same
3. Have the same problems
4. Laugh at the same thing
5. Look your best at all times

Because you let it.

We’re tired of seeing the exact same photo of you with the exact same people in a different bathroom mirror every Friday night.

Why can’t you hangout with other people?
Will it ruin your “rep” that much?

Is it really necessary to get hammered every weekend?
Why are we the ones who have to sit in one spot while you rotate around the room telling the same story to every one of your “friends”

Are you sure they’re your friends?
Because they talk behind your back

Why do you stay with that *******?
You know he’s hitting on twenty other girls, including your “best friend”

You spend money to look like you work for ***** Wonka.
Can anyone say Oompa Loompa?

How come we can’t make it through Instagram without knowing your order for Starbucks?
One grande non-fat white soy peppermint mocha at exactly 120 degrees with an extra shot of syrup extra whip and sprinkles put in the cup before anything else. Please?

We can’t afford to buy gas masks just to walk by your locker.
Spraying that much perfume is deadly.

We can never tell if you’re trying to smell nice or trying to start chemical warfare.

Is that makeup or a mask?

Your bra makes you a C-cup but you’re really only an A-cup.
Shhh, we won’t tell the boys.

Is it necessary to stop in the middle of the hallway to talk to your friends?
No, get out of the way please.

We know you have a car
You don’t have to walk around holding your keys all day.

Why do you spend so long trying to perfect the “messy bun” look?
Boys aren’t looking at your hair.

People don’t see you,
they just see your persona.

Unconsciously conscious,*
her skirt too short.
tugging it down pointlessly,
every second minute,
like a regular breathe,
all the eyes in the room
rode it up,
and rode the tugging
down too.

that she was pretty,
pleasure for the eyes,
was not the question.

no longer young pretty, but
fulsome, knowing, more,
knowledgable in her place,
secure in her thirties.

or so I thought.

an Anne Fontaine blouse,
silk and collar cut angled,
Italian leather skirt from Barney's,
and legs that were not
just shapely,
but pouted comely,
come love me, I am lovely.

or so I thought.

the skirt, a leather glisten,
seams so thin, almost invisible
to the eye,
like the lines nearest
her eyes,
but all lost,
because all
only saw,

the tugging.

I ponder it,
the meaning,
of the tugging,
consciously unconscious.

was she tugging herself
back inside older younger dreams,
back to where she once unconsciously belonged,
or forward to this moment where she was conscious,
a line crossed, and needy to be tugged back behind it.

my eyes did not depart from her thighs
for she was tugging me as well,
in two directions, into a place
where questions tugged at me,
and I too, consciously unconscious
that I no longer belonged where I belonged,

or so I thought.

there is not a sexist bone in my body.
not a one.

there is not a bone
in my body entire,
that it's marrow,
but just tinged,
more singed,
nay, more, more,
burnt and burning
with
****** desire.


****** desire is a concerto
of the
five sense organs:
vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch.

my body performs Halley's Fifth.
my woman listens carefully.