A deep feminist shame pulls
into port
and crashes into splintered, wooden shards
that tear at the skin
of the one-breasted woman metaphor
the scarves of concealment and auto-bio-liberation
imagining of the was-self
becoming lost in a crowd of well-accessorized women
there is an ugliness in these burns, I know
but why should it be an unfeminine ugly?
under this carefully crafted veil of falsely
straightened hair
of course,
the collar cannot show, of course
it is a fashion statement of self-pity and other pity
a woman is already a thing of pity
enough
this slight of hand/optical illusion
would have made me disappear
at least from the wary weary eyes of my sister-sufferers
these measures of concealment are the grabbing hands
they lead women to wear turtlenecks and
long-sleeved t-shirts and heavy
make up
and they cover the mouth to capture the pain
within
the lips
so
I will hold onto the dismembered figure of the one-breasted woman metaphor
and I will make myself disappear
through my silent invisbility and two-dimensionality
no more
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