My hair is not sunshine
and neither is it a waterfall.
It actually gets quite greasy
and dull
if I don’t wash it.

My eyes are not moons:
they do not contain craters
and I am not more beautiful
when I cry.
There is noise, and my eyes
become red and sore.

My torso does not house
fun-bags, cans, or knockers.
I have hanging bags of flesh-fat
that can spurt out food
(primarily not for you).
And yes, hair grows here
and farther below.

I do not part like rose petals,
I don’t smell like blossoms;
a congregation of sweat, lust and blood resides here.
I secrete. I squelch out juices not made of fruit.
I sometimes leave cream cheese on clean sheets.

I am not a neat little package tucked away on a shelf.
I have flips and flaps and I can fly away on them.
I do not plop out viscous blue windshield wiper fluid.
Sometimes it’s red, oft times it’s brown, and I sit in it.
Monthly, weekly.
I may not have fangs, but I have teeth that’ll grip
and hold on longer than you could ever dream
and I am not a sheath.
That would make you a weapon.

My thighs do not have a gap.
They rub and chafe, and become red and itchy.
And my posterior may be superior,
but lest you forget,
that I don’t toot;
I fart, I even burp,
and I don’t poop,
I shit.

And at the end of it,
you can still look upon me
with love.