Like a spider
Stalking it's prey,
Let's discuss all the
Things I hate.
We'll start on
A silver edge,
Sliding toward
The center
And create an image in
This storm from winter.
Striped knee high socks
Made for slim calves
And skinny knees,
Not meaty, muscular legs,
And curves I cant miss,
Even if I tried.
High heels I can't
stand (in).
Every step taken
Is one of an awkward
New born giraffe,
Feeling like a drunken sluggard.
Poise and grace
Are not my forte;
No amount of wishing
Makes clumsiness go away.
Dresses that celebrate
All that is feminine,
Make me feel hands
And eyes greasing over
Non existant curves
From childhood.
Early youth, with ruffles,
Bows, sugar, spice
And everything nice;
Carefree, open,
Weak and defenseless.
The dimple in my
Right cheek that
Turned my face into
A marshmallow.
Called "cute", like
The puppy poster
Put on the pale wall
Behind the bedroom door.
Not breathtaking or
Beautiful like the
Image of a thousand
Distant suns whispering
Into the night sky.
My tongue
And lips that lie
With scarrier ease.
My mind's scarce begun
To process the question
Before the silk's already been
Spun and is dripping
from my mouth like posion.
Hurling a net to
Catch the waves swimming
In the air that've
Already tickled the ears
Of interrogators
(Or saints, because my
Lies are no respecters of persons).
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