As I stood Crying into my mahogany lined mirror Tracing the curves that curse meThe wood reminds me of soft spots where it is solidThe wood dark and musky, masculine in nature mocks my feminine bodyMy body’s looking wrongThe mirror distorts and pounces on my curvy frameI will never be enough for myselfSo therefore how may I be enough for anotherI stack these expectations and biases like a Jenga towerClose together, and tight-nitYet one gust of wind shall send the tower careening downEach Jenga block is smooth mahoganyJust like my mirrorJust like everything I want and strive to beSo cut me down like a Swietenia treeShape and smooth meMake me large and boxyMake me shine and glimmerAnd make meMahogany.