I am not the kind of woman who men buy diamonds for.
I am not the kind of woman who wears heels,
covets a lipstick shade called berry sexy
and photographs her new nails.
There are no girly nights out,
no princess moments,
no pampering sessions,
and no diets.
The women who I am not
shine brightly from television sofas
and the front pages of glossy magazines,
They explain how I can be better
in dresses that skim over a round belly
and make short legs seem longer.
They promise that ten pounds will disappear
in two short weeks
without the need for hunger
while I share Cheryl’s baby agony.
They show me how to bake the same cake
that my gran made,
Their faces are fixed
in one gleaming, endless, empty smile,
their skin is airbrushed,
their feet and elbows positioned just so.
Each dress is a triumph of engineering,
each pair of jeans has been painted on with care,
each hair ruthlessly tonged
into its rightful place.
Glibly they show me how it is done.
Teasing me with perfection.
They will not be allowed to grow old.
They will be held in place,
as they cling on to the racks in the newsagents
until their usefulness is past
and they remain unsold-
caught in their own trap.
There is room for pity.