If I am your equal,
then why do you let your eyes slide
over my imperfect-but-salt-scrubbed skin,
my short-but-look-good-in-heels legs,
my natural and understated tan,
my brown, unimposing hair,
regular, almost-white teeth,
long, aimless, but feminine fingers,
my grabbable ass,
before remembering
the pink, graceful contours of my ever-sensitive brain,
the ageless ebony words that spell out my thoughts,
and the swirling, transparent inevitability that tells me;
these dry, glossless lips will voice a hundred opinions
that you’ll never hear;
these “beautiful eyes” as you called them, dark and ordinary,
will cry countless tears, whose roots you’ll never care to ask about;
these words that I’ve taken the time to write,
will painstakingly try to etch themselves into your
short-term memory, as you read this,
and you’ll scan them, wonder briefly who I wrote this for,
marvel- for barely a second- at my writings,
and then move onto the next exhibit.