They told me loving my body
Is a doing word.
They’d actively worship it
On the anti-throne of lust
Pull me apart and piece me back together for their own appreciation
They told me that I shouldn’t worry,
That those girl-like ridges
Above my ribs
Would blossom into the fullness
Of womanhood incarnate
In the curvature of
Somewhat recreational glands.
They told me not to freak out
My asset is one
That will be spinning heads because the sway in my hips is enough to slay.
They told me I will be enough;
If I listened to the sweet melodies,
Eventually the appetite may so sicken and die
They told me loving my body is a verb.
That is done to me.
Over and over and over.
But they forgot to tell me,
That the verb must first be done by me.