He'll want me when my hair falls right above the dimples in my back. Luscious enough to blow in the wind, strong enough that is doesn't fall out when he grabs it yanking my head further back so he can keep his balance.

He'll love me when my silhouette is equal to the coke bottle I sip from in bed when i really should be in a gym drinking water, doing squats and sit ups. So he can play with my lady lumps and compare them to mountains.

He'll miss me when my skin is as yellow as the sun that disappears come winter. When I'm as golden as the sand.

He'll never be able to do these things.

My hair is as coarse as twigs , it stands stiff with curls that he can grasp, but his fingertips will get stuck. They'll remain steady, and although my dimples in my back will never meet them, they'll give him balance. Never letting his fingertips go.

I'm as slim as a twig with 2 oranges attached. No other curves. But he'll fall asleep on my oranges, and watch as I nurse with my oranges. Never letting my family go pillowless or hungry.

I'm as brown as a twig. Never a redbone or yellow one. Just perfectly peanut butter. The in between. A sweet caramel that is a perfect topping to treats. Holding the sun in my skin, brown. Always reminding him that summer will always be in me.

He'll never love me.
Because the media doesn't show us twigs.
The perfectly imperfect that wish we could look like those women our men fantasize about.
Even though we love our smiles, our laughs.
We love our voices, we love holding hands.
They'll never love us.
Twigs get lost in the golden sand.