That Girl

So there’s that Girl, in that city where you live, and She looks as if
She’s scrolled down all the pages of the internet and has read all the comments left behind like slurs left behind in your ear in a diatribe by MRAs and people whose ways are paved
with good intentions about what men like in a woman and has done the opposite.
 
She is both taller and shorter than you wish and probably skinnier and fatter too— and She doesn’t hide it
 
She wears less and more than the magazines dictated to Her say to.
She won’t hide Her curves—no, fat. And She won’t hide Her collarbone that sticks out.
 
She wears high-waisted jeans and skirts maxied. She carries an oversized tote second hand, off-brand while taking a smoke.
 
She’ll wear colours that scream at you make you look at Her even though you don’t want to just like her heels will make you look up to Her.
 
You catcall Her.
 
She side-eyes you with Her cat-eye glasses
With neon orange lips or deep dark red She’ll turn Her head To face you, to say “fuck you”.
 
And Her hair of unnatural shades probably teal, or red, or grey, or all of them will flip back
—unless it’s cut short— and you’ll see the sides of Her head are shaved naked while the rest blows in the wind and She’ll walk on by you will call Her a fake.
 
Doesn’t She look great?