She Is A Tree Trunk

She is a tree trunk.
She is well aware of the indelicacy of her shape:
Society tells women to be flowers.
And when she thinks, "Be a flower"
She almost hates herself.
She almost wants to starve herself into another species.

They call her thighs thunder
Not because of their size
But because of the reverberations of her footsteps.
And she thinks that flowers must glide.

But darling, remember:
Only insects can climb flowers' stems.
Trees can be climbed by grown men.
Petals wither in the winter,
But you can push through the seasons
With or without your leaves.
And flowers are meant for nightstands and vases
But people build houses in trees.

That's not just some fat girl stomping down the hallway.
That's a storm.
Her thighs are made of thunder
And her heart's been set on fire.

Darling girl, remember:
You are a tree trunk.
There will be no laughing at your mass.
'Cause you've got bark and a bite
(And both are pretty bad)

Darling girl, remember:
You are a tree trunk.
You are the home of birds who make music
And bees who make honey.
Your insides are made
Of sap and wisdom.

And the rest of you listen up:
Hug a tree trunk.
And maybe, if you're lucky,
She'll let you build your home
In her limbs
And drink the sap
From her veins.