Sonnet 146

by Phoebe Walker

Oh lass, the little heat inside you’s cold
and all the rest can see is slap and glitter.
Each eyelash curl’s negation, badly told
your thoughts, in vacant shrills on Twitter.
Your hours chirruped out with “God, see him”,
in tear-eaten paint, charmless promotion.
Your nights with practised easiness, in skin
chastised to shrug and strut, self-eating motion.
Lost girls know such disguise is rarely fit.
From human cage, grow mighty to yourself.
Surpass the hard-trained slimness of your hips,
unlearn bland discourse, gorge your mind to health.
For this, find your own words, fit them to please
yourself; in that’s the wiser, better ease.