Fix.

I don't want to be your sex,
your glamor, your beauty.
I don't want to be your
killer thighs or
pouting lips,
your pert round breasts
or thinner hips.
I don't want to be your sex.

I don't want to be your longer lashes,
your knock out body-
your perfect ten,
keep it for yourself.

He told me that women don't
shower- don't
shave- don't
primp- don't
appeal
for the purpose of
avoiding interaction.

I tell him
get it straight
-that I don't do these things
for sole attraction.

I shave my legs,
sometimes-usually-when I feel it.
It has nothing to do with you.

My legs find themselves hairless
when I desire
silken smooth sensations
between my sheets
and my skin.

I shower,
most days-weeks-days,
so I can smell myself fresh,
cleansed, natural.

To feel the steamed sensations
of broken hot-rock falls
cascading down my
head-to-toe,
caressing my every freckle.

I primp,
always.

Check myself,
mascara, liner, lotion, gloss.
Fix my hair and paint my nails;
brush, rinse, floss.
And believe me,
this has nothing to do with you.

I appeal
for the selfish exhilaration
the rush of desire.
I feel waves of attention
whether attraction is genuine
or a happy fantasy of my ego-
My fix is delivered either way.

In all truth, if I know I am appealing,
pealing layers out to sun,
that is all that matters.

I don't have to interact
with anyone.
I look hot for me.

So face it.
I don't want to be your bombshell.
I don't want to be your sex.

I just want to live
amongst Mimosa flowers
and color laden skies.
To snuggle silken kittens and
play on soft bare skin.
Dance along heaven-lit clouds and
ride my bike to school.

Stop trying to fix me
I am not your fix.