They don’t write books about women like us
With waists slightly too wide
Misshapen fruit, picked through by dirty hands
Set aside for the discount bin.
 
They don’t write books about women like us
With eyes pointed slightly to the left
Never quite meeting the gaze
of the hunter; hungry and waiting.
 
They don’t write books about women like us
With voices slightly too quiet
Never interrupting, never interrupting
Never heard.