Were that she were made of runny honey
And red raw strawberries, all the refined sugar of the world,
Would it be that woman could still give you kisses that lingered like last Autumn on your clothes?
Would it be that woman would stay beautiful,
Holding the sun in her palms and making her light rain on you like wishes,
That woman with a scarlet heart of magic?
Well you’re mistaken. That woman,
Poison flowing in her teeth,
Her cheeks blossoming with mud and mulch,
Wouldn’t be yours or mine,
She’d be ugly, and know it,
Cry over her face with a bottle of red wine.
And the mirror would stand up to her and stare at her like a dagger.
It would be the bully who picked at her face.
You wouldn’t date her. Her thighs wider than the ocean, or so the boys on the bus used to say.
You’d marry an island,
Her, and her thoughts would be hungry, as always,
And would swallow the world up like a tub of ice cream.
That ugly, that disfigure, that asymmetric lip of hers,
Talks too much, doesn’t it?
But then again,
How would I know,
How would I know about her?
About how you see that woman,
How you in fact, must see me.