He never liked my curls, 
nor the colors of my soul in linen. 

Whenever I stood, stomach bulging and bloated, 
the uncertainty of boyhood dripped and froze as he stared.

“You are so beautiful”
was never offered when my glasses were on. 

Fix your spine. 
Fix your jokes. 
Fix your voices. 
Don’t be loud. 

Don’t wear that. 
Do things for me. 

Sure it’ll pass, but will it?
Are all America’s boys justified nowadays
to slouch against doorways with nothing to say?
….meanwhile women eat away at themselves,
doing a lit review on forgiveness.