It’s not about chastity belts
Or pledges of perennially-crossed legs
It’s not about how big the pom-poms
On her chest are, that cheer on anatomy lessons
Nor is it about the hemlines – the maxi and the mini –
That lift effortlessly to Aeolus’s pouts
It’s all about how she welds adamantine
In to her heart walls and still seals it with jello
And she needs to know
She can be anything she wants to be
Paint her heart with any color
Any flavor, even the sweetness of fruit sugar.
And she owns every muscle, tendon,
Ligament or sheath that defines her. A body
That needs no levies to exist,
Like a battered cheek, moisture-prone eyes
Compulsive immodesty
Or even for that matter; Love.
