it’s not that she’s fat,
it’s just that the abundance
is displayed, plentifully, piously, like a,
a pilgrimage site- to be deified?
Natural bracelets on her wrists
that jiggled as she made her points,
vehement and viscuous, just like her.
skin, pale, white, almost,
treasured, by her, it seems,
flaunted as it is,
only in tiny squares at the back,
affording fleeting glimpses
into volume, vacuum has no space there,
full as she is,
with her self, skin, flesh and fiendish fractures.
dimples on her palms winking,
the only humour on unblinking alabaster.
bulges bared in unbecoming bits
save when screened by sheets of super-straightened hair,
swept back, not braided,
upbraid her, will you?
WHO AM I, anyway?