Growing up
we always ask ourselves
will I be rich
will I be wanted
will I be loved
will I be pretty
will I be pretty
and our mothers will say to us,
Darling, you are beautiful.
but the mirrors will gawk at us.
I want to be pretty
I want to be pretty
Darling, you are beautiful.
but the slits on our wrists
tell us otherwise, Mother.
The girls at school with their
bouncy blonde ponytails
they are so pretty
they are so pretty
and we will sulk in our rooms
with razors so sharp,
pleading to Mother,
I want to be *pretty