The skyline and your waistline compare grooves in its wake,
Untenanted in the morning and full at dusk.
Gross as the night sky is,
You reject all its favors for a hue of your own.
Night wears you like skin,
Wears you like a sweater on a December evening,
Unearths you in the morning for lack of delicacy,
Yet you're just as slick and keen as the cotton white gardenias this morning.
It is not simple to be wholesome and exhumed at once by a man,
It is back-bending.
Its strides, graceless
Its sobs, shallow.
Its audacity manacled to your hips.
But it is what greets you at the corner asphalt with a bench and a bus schedule.
The girl at 9 was to love herself like a glass essay,
Did she know the ocean keeps the secret of sand hidden in her Cupid's bow?
That there's a shrine underneath her fingernails?
The grandeur of your temple is never lost
Not in the rain
Not in the catcalls that prop u like a corps
The ones that stiff arm your knees uncomfortable.
An elegy to all things that strip us before we become women
Before all the maggoted compliments swallow us whole,
Let your lashes beat egos to death, every glance,
Rub its cinders on your sorrow;
Let them be hued too
You are lovable.
You are sacrosanct beauty,
The covenant between dawn and all four seasons.
You are enough without ever being more.
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