What kind of woman is this
That feels so attacked by her own genetics
That she is convinced the world
Is run by long eyelashes and flat stomachs
Is this woman blinded by the romanticism
Of made-for-TV movies
Or was she illustrated this
Though various experiences of
Being the second choice or the substitute
What kind of woman is this
That is so arrogant to think
That men have not evolved enough to
Move past their carnal thoughts
And choose the more suitable mate
Instead of the most appetizing
What kind of woman is this
That is so deeply saddened by
What she can never have
Due to a scientific probability
Rather than be thankful that
Scientific improbability is why she's here
What kind of woman is this
That would take the chance of destroying
Her most delicate skin cells
Than stand one more minute
In a discolored exterior
That would change every facet of herself
If she could
Is she vain
For wanting all derma to conform
Therefore creating an attractive canvas
Or she right
For wanting this sin to be rid of her
To desire such a countenance
That forces pupils to widen and hearts to pump
What is a woman that loathes her face with such a ferocity
Tearing hers off is a daily fantasy
This is a kind of woman that has one word to describe herself
Nothing