to
bronze yourself like a statue,
the
fakery on your hips
and
your lips.
Your
legs are now like
two
curtain rails
drawing
you wide:
you’re
on show,
and
can’t hide.
Your
nakedness now
is
a scar
to
hide beneath
glossy
veneer –
something
unbidden, in bad taste,
like
some angel bent double
in
sneer.
And,
all along, all wrong,
your
friends have led you,
bled
you
of
your colour,
when,
all the while, all you needed
was
the loving ‘you’re perfect as you are’
of
another.
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