She makes a moue as she looks down to her 36-24-36 quintessential self

The home to her intriguing soul, riveting mind

Espying mindfully her conspicuous white scars

She makes a moue as she catches sight of the distorted temple reflecting in the mirrors

Whining about how her ribcage won't show

And thighs won't touch

She makes a moue as she couldn't fathom her worth

The riches inside the treasure chest

She makes a moue as she yearns the rich taste of milk chocolate,

Turning a deaf ear to the growls in her tummy

She makes a moue as she covers herself in fine dark fabric

To hide this stout bashful lady

Her scowls are hidden beneath pale pink paint

Coal colored lines are traced on her movable fold of skin

She can barely breath in waft of air,

In her tightly fitted garment to hide her pot-belly

Prairie grass are grown out to cover the andesite's fractures that she's rueful of

She didn't make a moue as she notices the stars in her eyes

And the radiance of her skin

She didn't make a moue as her curves remind her of tulip petals

She didn't make a moue as the temple her soul is in,

Is the only temple she'll ever have

She didn't make a moue as she sees home,

When looking into the mirror

The home she wrecked down,

The home she has broken down in,

The home she sleeps in,

The home she lives in,

The home she was born in,

And the home she surely wont ever abandon