Sunday, May 26, 2024

her

Poetry exploring femininity

Feminine anguish

Is not hating yourself because you are a woman,

It’s hating yourself because you aren’t her.

Your inner thighs kiss each other,

They are provocative,

Offensive to the public eye.

Tattooed with intricate striped patterns; they are unique, one of a kind, 

Yet utterly undesirable.

Somehow that precious space in between them is far more valuable.

Nothingness incites lust, emptiness labelled as beauty,

So you wish yourself away.

Until one day, maybe you do resemble her 

Maybe your thighs repel one another, and your distinct markings fade 

It is then you will learn,

That she too has a her

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