I love the way their bodies fight against the cloth,
the hard clean seams to fit men's straight lines.
Breasts and hips push defiantly against what is not theirs,
what was never meant to fit them. Buttons are strained,
necklines gape, open-mouthed, at the beauty inside
them, at the incredible complexity of women.
Women have layers and layers to push
through: simple sighs of happiness; that shaking silent
anger when the angles of men's clothes won't relent,
abrasions etched into her skin by the harsh cloth
of offhand jokes and shocked silence when her angry words finally rush
out; then the cynical strength to say, "I can live in the closet
for years, if the army will feed me and clothe me and educate
me." The relentlessness that comes from always pushing against
the seams, not because you want to, but because you are forced
to, by your body and the inevitable strength of growth.
I love to see women in thin white button-downs
and straight-legged jeans, nipples dark and half-hidden
and rubbed a bit erect by pushing against the cloth.
The lines of hips and ass outlined by the paradox
of straight lines. I love to watch them walk.
I love the way their bodies fight against the cloth.
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