the song on the radio makes you think of yet another middle school dance you didn’t want to be at
but your mother had already given you the four dollars for the door fee, and wouldn’t be back to get you for another few hours
and it’s dark in the gym, atmosphere that feels suffocating and stagnant to you sporadically cut through by bright winking lights
the little black dress with the pink band around the middle is accentuating all the wrong parts of your body, and you long for oversized hoodie, sneakers, and jeans
and the only boy you want to dance with, doesn’t want to dance with you
still don’t know if you want to be 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 him or 𝘣𝘦 him,
still won’t know, over a decade later, thought this no longer keeps you up at night
but you want his hands on your hips, think and hope and pray that this simple gesture could ground you in girlhood
and this boy, with his tawny hair and kind eyes, doesn’t know that you’re a boy, too
and neither do you, right then all you do know is that you’re a girl who feels wrong in her skin, and even worse in that little black dress with the pink band around the middle
and the boy you want to dance with, doesn’t want to dance with you