It started with CosmoGirl.
A wide eyed teen idol staring blankly
from the glossy cover,
parted lips ready to tell me what it took
to be a woman.
Fashion, feelings,
photoshopped images that told me
my body was not good enough.
Luckily, page sixty-four had a "fun new work out"
I could obsess over until the new issue
hit the shelves.
The next step was Cosmopolitan.
Dear Cosmopolitan,
I've noticed your models have not changed.
Adult women with hips as narrow as the girls
on your kid-friendly counterpart.
A doe-eyed cover girl
convincing me I have to turn the page.
On either side of her manufactured waist,
bold letters remind me I am nothing.
In the center of the magazine,
past the ads for outfits you remind me I cannot afford,
I find 136 ways to please a man.
There is not one mention of my own intentions.
Page twenty-six tells me I am not beautiful,
and the letters to the editor show no signs of
disagreement.
I'm sorry, but I cannot believe this.
As I stand in line at the grocery store,
I realize that page 109 would tell me that I cannot
cook this food to perfection. That the door
through which I will throw myself,
bags in hand,
will lead to a home that is inadequate.
If only I'd had page 108 to remind me of what
a woman's touch is.
I tell myself that I am doing just fine
without your advice, but
I always leave the store in a state of discontentment.
Please, tell your editors--
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