Purged

Purged
as truth
from the pit of my stomach,

I’ll tell you.

I had mastered the art of femininity.
I’d been on a hundred, hungry fasts for the Goddess of Beauty.

I’ll tell you this:
let’s eat! If you ever believed in feminism,
don’t talk about how a woman makes 75 cents to a man’s dollar,
then go on your date, nibble on 2 pieces of lettuce, 4 peas and
a sliver of carrot to inherit the gaze of men.

The honey-glazed, hunt-down stare of the lurid men beside you
who unlike you have never known diet as a state of being,
who unlike you never worried that marriage
was hinged on weight
hung around the neck as a harness.

So you’ve side stepped your way like a Vegas show girl.
Patch quilted your mind with wishes of Pam Anderson’s tits
Jennifer Lopez’s ass
so that your man will love you more,
whose lustful-looks merely mimic love,

know that your heart deserves more than that Oh baby-ing, or
whistle-wanting hot body
waiting to pluck love
from looks.

I’ll tell you this:
while we turn a blind eye to social conventions
middle school cheerleaders are starving themselves to
Jessica Alba’s abs.
Fourth grade girls are watching their reflections in the mirror wondering
when they will find love through their budding breasts.

Hey, as the media minded faux-feminist,
tell me. How will you protect your daughter from slim fast shakes and the
MTV shake your money maker music videos?

I’ll tell you this:
You say you want to be the modern day woman warrior.
You say you want to walk in Hilary’s highest heels.
If you want to talk about
the hardships of women,
what changes we can make,
then let’s take off these high heels.

Our lustful, lipsticked lips are luring
wrongful stares.

I’ll tell you this:
I know about this faux-feminism; it was an inheritance.
Mothers and daughters bubble-wrapped in
media madness.

I fear for my own daughter’s blindness
Fear that she may smell my fear and wear it as a scent.

I’ll tell you this:
The purge-point to bulimia is only two fingers deep.