lantairvlea | Woman

What is this thing you call Woman?
It can't be me
That curved figure
The agile, twisting frame
Soft and suptle as a wraith.

I am no such creature
This Woman that you speak of
Eyes mild, but mind a-blaze
Is there such a thing?
Does such a myth exist?

This Woman, this thing
Which one might call me?
Is that what this form is called
This frail, vulnerable body?
The curves and bends of the female frame.

I have a hard time seeing myself as such. Seeing myself as something that one might call "beautiful." Seeing myself as a step above another. What is so special about this build and form? What is it that others seem to be attrachted to? I do not strut or pose. I don't beg for attention. I'm rather happy in my corner. I'm rather happy just being me and living as such. What are these comments regaurding beauty? Do I really have such an appearance? Beauty is some fable, a myth. It doesn't exist on the human canvas in the way it once did: pure, unadorned, unaltered. I do not fit this standard, social mold of beauty. I avoid the appearal, I shun the paint, I dance about the fragrances and gells.

Woman, is that what I am? I suppose I have been called many things, but this last and final . . . Woman. No more Girl resides here. She is gone and banished from the consciousness of the public. The Girl is no longer recognized, the lable is worn and tired. But . . . Woman.

Curves and roundness where once there was none. Suptle movements picked up and carried away. Unconscious motions noticed by others and then blinked at. The transformation must be near completion. Girl to Woman, the former no longer applicable, but the latter seems misplaced.