You don’t want the smooth,
ivory complexion, the flawless
body in a Barbie box.
You want me.
You want to taste my pores
and the shower I took last night.
You want to kiss my playground scars
and trace the backs of my knees,
see the correlation between
your fingertips and the sharp degree
of my upward-arching spine. You
want to get tangled knuckle-deep
in my never-combed hair. You want
my bra-less, non-silicone chest
pressed against yours,
lining up the rest.
this isn’t a picture, or plastic,
or anywhere near perfect. This
isn’t jerk-in-the-dark fodder.
This is your wake-up call, your
private show, the beginning of
a really, really good day.