Whose wine is it, anyway?

To all the girls I’ve known, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you grew up believing that you were not beautiful. I’m sorry your self-esteem was inversely proportional to your waistline. I apologize for the times you were told that to be beautiful, you must be fair. To be pretty, you must be slim. To be attractive, you must have well-spaced teeth, to be desirable you must have abnormally straight yet voluminous hair and to be loved, your skin must be smooth, your breasts must be well shaped and you must have no love handles at all. Because love can’t handle them. I’m sorry you were told repeatedly that no one would marry you because you were dark, or that with your size, you’d find it hard to find love, or that with your height, you’d find no partner or that you’d never truly experience happiness because you’re not cut out of a magazine cover. I’m sorry that your weight determined your self worth and you grew up with body image issues blaming your body for your setbacks and failures and asso

Dressed in red with a golden tie, slick and handsome with a smile so wry, Walks in, my partner with slick gaiety, His name is, no surprises- Mr. Anxiety! He grabs me tightly, by the waist, Knots my insides, twirls me with haste, And spins me repeatedly, to and fro, Instead of pulling me inward, he lets go! He extends his hand in a gentlemanly way, when I give him my hand, he pulls away. My spirit is hurt but not entirely broken, I extend my hand to him, - a friendly token. He takes my hand, with a mocking grin, turns me once, then draws me in. His grip is so tight, I begin to choke. He doesn’t care. He’s an indifferent bloke. From his grasp, I try to break free, But he won’t let me go so willingly. He twists my arms, forces me into a sweat, I am now filled with gnawing regret. Why did I choose a partner so vile? Who paralyzes my insides with his dreary smile, Who twists me into a pitiable heap, Who makes me wallow, wail and weep. My spirit is now completel