[POEM] The Perfect Woman

The perfect woman

does not exist.

Where has she gone?


She was never there in the first place.


We are all from

broken molds.

We’ve all bred demons

and raised angels.


Oh sure, some of us

have put on skins of

shea butter and lilac fumes,

crimson lips;

but those ones are just hungry

for a sucker and a lollipop.


The real ones,

good women,

not perfect;

we are calloused.

We’ve covered our scars

with ink, flour, detergent, paper cuts,

not in shame,

but in respect for those

with real scars to bear.


Those who conceal their scars

with scarves, wigs, sick days, words,

not out of shame or fear,

but out of respect

for those lesser among us

who cringe at the sight of

real strength,

real truth,

real perfection.










You all know, I’m no feminist. But that does not mean I do not support the power of women, nor do I ignore the tortures of women. Inspired by this photograph challenge, I decided to put down some words in reflection of what it means to me to be a woman, what it means to be me as a woman in this society. I hope the words came across well for you. Cheers.


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