Imperfection,
she called herself;
her name often tagged,
her beauty was pure;
jealousy and hatred,
the perfect body to adore;
something the sort of tiny and petite;
corsets and their tiny lil’ waists,

thick thighs were not allowed to touch;
as we embrace to look thin,
our features lie not true;
attraction to a perception,
first glance,true love,
judged am I upon my appearance;
pretty privileges;
hair on legs considered manly;

I cannot live in my wrath;
a hoarse voice known not as feminine shall be soften;
scars my experience from what I learned is ugly,
the body like a porcelain doll desired and shapened by men;
what society is this,
the living to which everything is limited,

flat-chested like a wooden board, no butt;
a mole would perhaps enhance my face,
the lips not to tiny, not to big,
just the right for a perfect kiss;
straight hair as plain as can be,
some fair curls to volumize the size;

tiny feet scrutinized to be elegant;
and all those filthy meager lies told by “them”;
to be as “perfect”;
to be that women,
the one all loved and cherished;
the one made by the society,
never have I truly loved myself…