What, It’s a Compliment

the truth never set me free.

the truth bound me in chains,

nailed me to floorboards in

dusty attics

where i can't even read

a magazine without

the lines from all the cages

i'm trapped in

making a checkerboard pattern

across my legs;

tall, but not too tall

thin, but not too thin

toned, but not bulky

white, but nicely tanned

hairless, blue-eyed,

and blonde, preferably.

turns out,

building the perfect woman

is not much different

from ordering a fine cut

of steak.

and i can't even watch

a movie without

seeing every strong female

character sexualized

by the industry

and then shamed when

she chooses to act

sexually, and we all have to

play this game,

walk the tightrope.

"do this balancing act

in lingerie

and stilettos

but for god's sake,

cover yourself up."

the other day,

i was walking down the street

and i saw an ad for a local

gym, the picture of a woman

cropped from her neck down to the

tops of her thighs.

no head, no legs.

no thinking, no getting away.

don't you want this body?

it asks me.

what good would that do,

i think.

they'd probably still ask us to smile

with our heads missing.