promises in a small room

This morning I promised myself honesty

for the mistakes endowed with sugar 

anxious awaiting, not a factor for funneling 

the end of a nightmare with roses 

there's a small room, big enough

for the roads that widen when I stand still 

I sit back in the evenings, on the window

I spread my clothes like silk I promise 

with vows and so many little expressions 

better aesthetics and less broken poetry 

I vow the eternal vows of women

to cut out the bread, keep the butter 

leave behind the carbs and the crap 

yes you read right, the things that make us smell 

envy: bodies thinner than our own 

made up and tight like solid giraffes standing 

I vow to excessive exercise

day in and day out- for what?

a child?  a continuation of our despair

but in flesh, things learnt from broken motherlands 

tired homes and beings unready to leave 

not willing to stay or listen or hold anything to their 

chests other than closed vests 

low-cut V line blouses

for what? a loss of waist measures to impress those who 

are not willing to grant a glance 

when the second glass of wine is full 

reeling down, leaving circles on the counter tops of bars

or leaving spots of club lights on the arms of dancing women 

unforgiving mistresses with husbands granted to night

returnee, for what? do we make promises from smaller rooms

do you think we can find comfort in bigger sized rooms?