"The Real Woman"

It is one in the morning

and she sits naked,

hair frizzed, body frail,

unmasked and unmade.

She is a mess.

Beauty has left the building,

the alluring is someone else's tonight

in the mirror, a reflection

of the real woman

lies.

The real woman that every man asks for

but

in reality, no man wants.

Because, they are scared of her

repulsed by her

and all that she represents

they dislike the look of her nappy hair,

her hairy legs, her unshaven pits, her saggy tits --

scared because she does not resemble

the supermodels,

the play boy bunnies,

the hooter girls,

or any male perception of female perfection.

In fact, she is the opposite of Naomi

or Tyra, or Cindy, or Halle,

or even Ms. Lauryn Hill.

Because she is

the bottom of the barrel , not the cream of the crop,

or the creme de la creme.

Because she is more

fragile, more simple, more flawed , more exposed,

more real

than you, or I, will ever be on the surface.

But, I only let her out

once in a while,

when no one else can see her.

And whenever I catch her reflection, in a mirror, staring back at me,

I cringe,

call her ugly,

cover up the mirrors,

close my eyes,

take a long deep breath,

reach for my compact --

cover her up,

until she is once again

every man's

proverbial, sexual, fantasy.

I am a fantasy.

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