People hate that I flip two cigarettes
Upside down in each pack
But I hate that people notice
When you gain three pounds,
But not when you buy a new hat.
I’ve been told that the way I sleep
With one leg draped over
The person lying next to me
But I think it’s annoying
When people tell me
I look pretty,
But only when I paint my face.
I’ve heard that old men
Like to touch the girls who work late at bars,
But I want to know
Why they never kiss the women they married
fourty-two years ago.
I’ve noticed that mothers teach their daughters
That it’s rude to refuse a hug
From an uncle they’ve met three times,
But forget to teach them
That they aren’t obliged to kiss
The boy who paid for dinner.
I love you in a language that I don’t fully understand. In words that I haven’t found enough courage to forklift out of my chest.
It is terrifying to think that one day you will trust somebody enough to let them see you naked. You will undress and remind them that you’ve stretch marks and birth marks and scars from having chicken pox when you were little and scars from all of the other things now. You will blush thousands of shades of red, painting yourself as a rose losing its petals. And that person - that person will take it all in. And I wonder if they will reassure you. But mostly, I wonder if they will even see anything worth reassuring you about. I hope they see each freckle on your back as if it’s a star and you are the whole universe to them.
I hope your day is as nice as your butt.
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