To the women who think that in order to be beautiful they need a man to tell them that they are beautiful
To the women who try to make men love them by sleeping with them
To the women who want to hide their faces and bodies underneath layers of artificial beauty
The ones who think that it can truly hide them
To all the women who say that they are “too much” because men don’t understand emotions, cannot comprehend love
To thee women who hate their husbands, lovers, children - even for a second - because labor really is that bad
To the women who never wanted to be like their mother yet turned out exactly as she did
who never had a mother to be ashamed of
To all of you who have breasts - even if they are not the size you want them to be
To you with big mouths, hearts and bellies
Your mother, sister, great-aunt, boss, best friend - every woman - feels with you.
I say I’m almost ready
I call him awfully nice
He calls me a paradox.
He says he’s at a loss for words
He calls me indescribable
I call him an oxymoron.
He says you’re a moron! and we laugh and he kisses my face and we make love and we miss the party.
We miss the point.
Because Words Are For Playing With (and Hearts Too)
There is no record of the sounds you made, no catalog
of sighs I might flip through, circle with red pen
yes, that’s the one — play it for me
From “WHAT I KNOW SO FAR” by Karen Dietrich