I can practice being soft.
I can practice shrinking into myself till
I dissipate in the heat of your glance,
I can practice being palatable.
I can practice till I master the coquettish look,
till I master looking like an object, till
I master forgetting myself,
I can learn how to be soft.
I can learn how to agree with every
word you say, how to wear
whatever you like, how to
do whatever you like,
I can be soft.
I can chip away at myself till I am no longer harsh,
I can change my personality like a dress, I’ll
make it match your eyes, I’ll make it match your tux,
I’ll make myself simply complement you.
I can be soft.
I can forget about my opinions and
my thoughts, instead I’ll be a reflection
for yours; a mimic to flatter you,
a woman who’ll lie to you.
I can be soft.
I can try to fold away all my problems; I can
try to cut away the parts you don’t like, the
parts that don’t like you; what will be left then?
Will I exist?
Or will I have shrunk so small that
you won’t be able to see me?
Will you be able to see me?
Will I be able to recognize me?
I can try.
I can train my eyes to spot the lies tucked into
the pleats of the dresses you liked, smeared along
with the lipstick you chose,
dangling from the earrings you bought,
I can lie.
But I won’t.