Precious


rose

Precious
a poem

I could have made myself precious:
salons every fortnight,
facials every month,
a bag for every outfit,
a wardrobe every season.

I could have made myself more … pleasing:
trimmer waist,
stick straight shiny hair,
a generous smile,
a witty little brain.

Instead of straightening my hair,
I chose to show every kink, every wave,
all the sharp curves of my brain.
Instead of slimming down my waist,
I chose to gorge on life joys and pains.
I chose to suck on the teat of life –
I imbibed. Too late to realize
That a thick waist will not keep a man
from holding me – or holding me back,
from completely embracing me – or completely crushing my breath.

I could have made myself precious:
Stone-cold marble skin
touched only by the highest bidder,
hands so light, I’d have flown away at the slightest slight,
a jewel, a treasure, a rare coveted delight.

I could have made myself slimmer.
Having more of me meant
more to give away,
more to lose,
more of me spread out on the table.

I could have been precious
but I let you touch.
I could have been precious
but I let you in.
I could have been precious
but I let you partake.

Yet, I can’t really be precious.
I’m not the type of girl that people like
or men fall in love with.

Hell, I know I’m not precious.
Was I too easy?
Did I give too much of me?
I could have made myself precious to you.

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