Image credit: Maryn Rice
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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