There’s been a trend on social media lately for women to describe themselves the way a male author would in a novel. The results have been highly amusing, so I thought I’d do my take on it as a poem for today.
Maybe she was once the kind of girl
I could have convinced to have a drink
even though she doesn’t like the burn
of whiskey down her throat.
She doesn’t wear her late-thirties well.
You can tell she eats her feelings
with a slice of chocolate cake each night,
curled up on her microfiber couch
(stain resistant for the kids, of course).
But her breasts would fill both my hands
so that’s something.