by Aura Bishop
I know why Picasso painted women that way
A jumble of parts rearranged, exaggerated,
Diminished, objectified all at once
According to his measure
Men see what they want to see
The rest superfluous
Moved over if it doesn’t suit their mood
Maybe my heart looks like that now
Dismembered, an artery floating off
In the left field
Connected only by stringy veins
Ventricles cubed like a kaleidoscope
On the horizon
A bunch of mangled, stapled bits
On the right
Have you ever dressed up for your love?
In a silk gown, hair arranged just so
Face painted but not hidden
Features displayed in all
The right ways
Have you, dressed,
Been met with dulled eyes
No comment, no thanks
For the effort
Newly invisible and sparkling
All at once?
Have you sat patiently for weeks, waiting?
Being there for him?
To watch as he told the world he was alone?
Have you sat by as he poured words
Over other women?
Calling them beautiful,
Shouting praise over the rooftops,
In public, did he fall silent over you?
Hiding in the dark corners of dive bars
Never going out in the light of day
Always ‘cute’ maybe ‘sexy’
Never ‘beautiful’
whispered or mumbled
Worse, to be loved and othered
To be called beautiful
But always with a ‘but’
Beautiful but not in an obvious way
Sexy but not sexy
A man desires you
But is conflicted because
You are not what he usually loves
An odd bird he wants to keep caged
Admire but never just embrace
What can you do?
No matter how you arrange yourself
The parts are always wrong
nothing about you is recognizable anymore
Perhaps the breasts unique, identifiable
Maybe the lips look like they’re trying to sing your song
You were Venusian once
Now abstract and no longer whole
Add comment