Does my skirt provoke you?
Are you scarred by my top?
Does the length and depth define me,
Could I do a better job?

Am I made by what I wear?
An outfit I compose
The paint I layer on my face
The cut of my clothes.

You say I have no self control,
No power of restraint,
You place me in a little box
A student with a male teacher or peer.
It’s her fault he could not.

Hold himself away from her
Chain himself to the chair
labelling her his object
Instead of averting his stare

I’m not defined by cloth it’s purpose is warmth
Nor the body underneath
It is me and my intelligence

Does my existence provoke you
Fill you with disgust
Because my ability to choose
Is simply not good enough

For the standards you set me
The body I must have,
To be considered ‘pretty’
To be considered ‘bad’

My skirt can not be to short
My shirt not to deep
Because a low neckline
Will prevent my ability to speak

Does my happiness provoke you
My confidence in who I am
Because it’s taken a long time
To love myself

Not one map guides you

to Hopperland Happiness –


in your own body.

I just feel dizy
Where all the time go
Nothing is logical and I've lot the sense of purpose
And even though
I'm still a human
My body makes me feel like I'm just a reject
Reject of stars
Reject of life
Nothing  is logical and I've lost the sense of purpose
My body's flying
But I stay put down
Is this really the end of my existance?

I could spend hours counting the freckles on your face

if that meant I could spend hours close enough to you to see them

At which point in vivisect ​
of the physical body
do we parse in twine
the real and the imagined
self? Some point soon
muscle must cede to
hedged bets in extraspace,
wish upon itself mercy.