"Real women don't look like that."

[Titania]

“Real women don’t look like that.”
Over and again, you laughed
that ad-perfect perkiness
doesn’t
exist.
I rolled my eyes and groaned
exasperated, (fourteen year olds always are)
but I remembered
Charlie’s Angels are
bullshit
because nobody fights crime in those heels.
I’d never tell you how proud I was
that you were better than, tougher than
Mr. Clean loving, lipstick pushing, boob-job junkies.
There is a part of my heart
that slips down past my lungs
and under my belly
when I see your shame or
uncertainty
at a joker-perfect smile.
Comical in all the wrong ways, your face
is not familiar anymore
and secretly, I miss the lines you covered up
with collagen.
I remember the way
your forehead crinkled and
mouth turned down
as you crossed out commas students sprinkled on
like chocolate chips.
When I looked at you I saw
baking pies and times-table songs
the typing course I had to take and when
you laughed because my son
could push so hard my belly moved.
Now you look like injections
and I’m afraid because
I don’t want to hear about your crooked nose.
Everybody has a crooked nose or
thunder-thighs and freckled lips.
My small left breast wonders
if your crooked nose will forgive itself,
or if those words only mean something
when you’re talking to somebody else.
My scars want to know
if you’re only proud when you’re pretty
or if they can come play too.

[heslopian]

“Real women don’t look like that.”
Over and again, you laughed Is any of the punctuation in this poem strictly necessary? It's not used consistently to create the effect of crafted, rhythmic sentences, so I'd say it's not needed.
that ad-perfect perkiness
doesn’t
exist. Nice use of line breaks here.
I rolled my eyes and groaned
exasperated, (fourteen year olds always are)
but I remembered
Charlie’s Angels are
bullshit
because nobody fights crime in those heels. Witty observation. I always wondered how they kept their hair and clothes so perfect
I’d never tell you how proud I was
that you were better than, tougher than
Mr. Clean loving, lipstick pushing, boob-job junkies.
There is a part of my heart
that slips down past my lungs
and under my belly
when I see your shame or
uncertainty
at a joker-perfect smile.
Comical in all the wrong ways, your face
is not familiar anymore
and secretly, I miss the lines you covered up
with collagen.
I remember the way
your forehead crinkled and
mouth turned down Exellent lines from "comical" onwards. Sincere, concise and quietly moving.
as you crossed out commas students sprinkled on
like chocolate chips. It might be useful if you establish a bit more about the character, like her profession and relationship to the narrator, earlier on.
When I looked at you I saw
baking pies and times-table songs
the typing course I had to take and when
you laughed because my son
could push so hard my belly moved.
Now you look like injections Great line. Cuts to the core of the poem's theme in a straightforward, powerful way.
and I’m afraid because
I don’t want to hear about your crooked nose.
Everybody has a crooked nose or
thunder-thighs and freckled lips.
My small left breast wonders
if your crooked nose will forgive itself,
or if those words only mean something
when you’re talking to somebody else.
My scars want to know
if you’re only proud when you’re pretty
or if they can come play too.

A really good poem. I like how the mother character sadly betrays her own beliefs about cosmetic surgery, and the way you convey this through your narrator as a tragedy. It's sad but very vivd work. Thank you for the read, and all critique is JMHO

[71degrees]

One of the TED talks (just google it, you'll find it) has a real life model (Cameron Russell, one of the original Victoria Secret models) discussing what "real" women actually look like, as opposed to everything we see as consumers. I thought your poem summed this up quite nicely. Thanks for posting this.

71degrees

[ellajam]

"
I’d never tell you how proud I was
that you were better than, tougher than
Mr. Clean loving, lipstick pushing, boob-job junkies.
There is a part of my heart
that slips down past my lungs
and under my belly
when I see your shame or
uncertainty
at a joker-perfect smile."

I loved the whole poem, especially the bluntness of the above in the middle of all your well turned lines. I find this disconnect really relatable.

"My small left breast wonders
if your crooked nose will forgive itself"

is a real standout line for me.

You've expressed beautifully the conflict and grief when a parent reveals themselves to be less than we thought. Thanks

[ScurryFunger]

“Real women don’t look like that.”
Over and again, you laughed
that ad-perfect perkiness
doesn’t
exist.
I rolled my eyes and groaned
exasperated, (fourteen year olds always are)
but I remembered
Charlie’s Angels are
bullshit
because nobody fights crime in those heels.
I’d never tell you how proud I was
that you were better than, tougher than
Mr. Clean loving, lipstick pushing, boob-job junkies.
There is a part of my heart
that slips down past my lungs
and under my belly
when I see your shame or
uncertainty
at a joker-perfect smile.
Comical in all the wrong ways, your face
is not familiar anymore
and secretly, I miss the lines you covered up
with collagen.
I remember the way
your forehead crinkled and
mouth turned down
as you crossed out commas students sprinkled on
like chocolate chips.
When I looked at you I saw
baking pies and times-table songs
the typing course I had to take and when
you laughed because my son
could push so hard my belly moved.
Now you look like injections
and I’m afraid because
I don’t want to hear about your crooked nose.
Everybody has a crooked nose or
thunder-thighs and freckled lips.
My small left breast wonders
if your crooked nose will forgive itself,
or if those words only mean something
when you’re talking to somebody else.
My scars want to know
if you’re only proud when you’re pretty
or if they can come play too.

Well, this is so up my street it's living next door, I read it several times to try and decipher the relationships that you were trying to portray and I'm afraid that I got a bit lost and confused. That's probably my fault, not yours.

I've no idea about how to go about fixing anything, I just know it needs a bit of tweaking for more 'common understandability' or something!

It seemed to veer all over the place, with different points of view.

Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.

[abu nuwas]

I also puzzled over the relationships. It could be a mum who is spoken of, or it could be a female teacher, perhaps the object of a school-girl pash; or the mum might be a teacher. In a sense, one may say it does not matter much, as the feelings evoked by the passing of time and change in habit by the older woman would be the same. It is a bitter-sweet nostalgic piece, of wit and regret.

I think, and I may be alone, that as it is a narrative, it perhaps would benefit from greater clarity; then again, for once, a thin veil of ambiguity was part of the fun of reading, for me. I liked the sentient and talkative body parts -the nose, the small left breast, and especially, probably because of how I am right now this:

''There is a part of my heart
that slips down past my lungs
and under my belly
when I see your shame ..''

[tigrflye]

I think it is a daughter.. who is growing up.. trying to accept herself and look up to her mother who is supposed to show her how to be a woman and feel comfortable in her imperfect skin.. but the mother obviously doesn't accept herself and it breaks the daughter's heart.
? Or perhaps that is my story. Haha
Regardless, it spoke to me and isn't that what it is supposed to do?