10th C
They must be petite
And make not a sound,
My satin-slippered feet,
Both broken and bound.
My face must be fair,
Though I’m naturally gold.
And I must grow my hair,
But I may not grow old.
15th C
Chopines so tall,
I totter and stomp,
Just to keep the world small,
While I look down with pomp.
For I cannot get dirt
On the edge of my dress,
When the state of my skirt
Is what shows that I’m best.
17th C
My hair, not my own,
Is only a wig.
It is so overblown,
For it has to be big.
To show off my riches,
I’ll keep it on, please.
Though it’s so thick it itches,
Infested with fleas.
Early 19thC
Clad in a corset,
I struggle to breathe.
Like a switched off faucet,
My lungs let naught leave.
Though weighed down by petticoats
That are held up by straps,
My feet must still float,
And my posture can’t lapse.
Late 19thC
I knock down a candle,
With a hoop skirt so wide,
That no-one can handle
The immediate tide
Of fires that sweep,
Up the fabric in flames,
While the steel rungs keep
Me trapped in door frames.
20th & 21st C
My clothes must be fitted
To make me look thin.
So pockets are limited,
And fit nothing in. Instead
I buy purses
To carry my things,
And hold back my curses
At zippers and strings.
I hope that more clothing
Will soon be designed,
With more than the one thing
Of beauty in mind.
We will not choose whether
To feel good or look nice,
But they’ll both come together,
And not at a price.
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