There are nights that you will look at yourself
in that wall to wall mirror
and think that your existence is a problem to be solved.
I’m not talking about your existence-existence,
but your woman-existence;
and you will come to find that this one
is a lot more important to the hungry eyes
you try to satiate.
There are nights that you will look at yourself
peeking out behind Ashley
or Jenna
or whatever-the-fuck her name is
with the sickled feet and the shaky chaines turns
and you will imagine taking a pair of scissors
to the flesh taking center stage in the mirror.
But these nights are laced with prayers
begging you to set the sharpness down.
these nights are going away parties
that you refuse to show up to.
There are nights that will turn into mornings that will turn into decades
that you will spend hating yourself
into a version of yourself
that you can love—
a version of yourself that gets to stand
in the front row.
You will never get to stand
in the front row.
Honey,
you don't have to keep reaching for that ballerina
with the pointed toes and the pointed bones—
You don't have to keep reaching for her.
I know you think she's doing pirouettes in the back of your throat
but the more you reach for her the further back she slips.
You are so much more than pink satin ribbons
displayed like falling leaves in a forest fire.
Honey,
you are not honey.
You are acid,
strong and corrosive.
You are more spice than sugar
and this is the way it is supposed to be.
Drowning your lungs in nectar
will not make you sweeter;
it will just make it harder to breathe.
Honey,
when they say that you are a big girl
that is to say that you are a woman;
and there will come a day when you will stop apologizing for that.