Grace

I never speak to you of such things, 

because you think the grace of a woman comes from her movements, 

the tilt of her head when she looks at you, 

the curve of her hips when she slips by. 

You think me graceless because I'm not as clean cut, 

because my angles poke at your grabbing hands and my words 

are never on a scale of beauty but on a scale of comfort and intent.
You think me broken up and shapeless and nude of all sweetness 

but soaked in guile.

You seek a silence I can never grant you, 

and yet I do not speak to you of this anymore 

because I no longer see grace when I look in the mirror, 

I only see the result of trying to please you, 

and it breaks me apart even more.