'brownstone of my body,' i had declared
privately my first confession. somewhat
intimate. and as my voice quivered like
name-tags on teenage trees, i hoped you
found me endearing in your brazen ways.
i come off as naive, to your unblinking gaze:
passive, unimpressed, and mostly unfazed.
my small pink feet are soft and raw against
your weathered knees. and you say my belly
is too mellow with its paper-doll creases, flesh
too easily torn by your cut-brick corners, face
too childish for your middle-aged games. but
my thighs are like your alleys, leave no space
for nonsense, is my whole as is my part, if you
can love me for my thighs, i will be content with
something along the lines of 'my brownstone
loves me for my thighs, my thighs
have no alleys and i would have it no other way' and
I would ask no question as the blossom of my tender body is
pinched between your fingers and rolled into a
tiny pink cigar, stamped out before ever being lit.
and i would never ask, is this (ever) womanhood?