babygirl
she was reading a poem about a girl who
got her cherry popped
thinking about perverted things but mostly
sadness and the size of her thighs
she was waiting for the boy who
would be nothing like patrick swazey
(“no one puts baby in the corner”)
she didn't know how to dance in high heeled shoes
anyway
she wanted to feel beautiful and hot
and dangerous and wild
like the girl in the poem said she could
but all she felt was a sinking blue sensation and
a blushing desire to make her ribs the most
visible part of her body
(when she pulled her stomach in, it was still
rounded)
downstairs her sister was watching jerry maguire and
a girl with a beautiful name in the next room
smoked cigarettes
(but only five a day)
she wanted to grow up with coffee in the morning
and a quiet boy who didn't need for her to joke
her way into anything
it hurt her to think maybe it would have to be a girl
(because there aren't any boys like that
are there?)
she wanted her picture taken with the italian waiter
she wanted layered hair and size one pants to fit her
she wanted her lips to be pursed and red as christmas
she was sick of being sixteen and never kissed
(and knowing she wanted to be
made her feel
dirty)
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