Smocked dresses, lace, and curls
blurred Sundays are broken-record memories
"What a pretty little girl!" they'd say
like my appearance was something achieved
Mama'd change the subject
to something I'd actually influenced
like my role in the children's play
or the elaborate stories I'd written
"Pretty little girl"
my adored eyes would shift
suddenly intrigued
by the buckle on my shoe
Mama's grip said "be polite"
choking the social norm from my hand
But Mama's eyes apologized
as she witnessed me realize
where society found my worth
What happens to pretty little girls
when the smocked dresses don't fit
when they trade bows for bras
when the broken record finally breaks?
First, they crumble
blindly grasping for the pieces
the pieces that once built them
with an unwritten expiration
An identity once balancing
on a tower of cards
blown over by the same force
that built it
It seems pretty little girls
can grow up to be anything
doctors, teachers, writers
and mothers
That apology I saw
in Mama's emerald eyes
was for her loosening grip
on the shield of my innocence
Eyes wet with experience,
she caught me when I crumbled
and showed me my pieces
I had long devalued
I always wondered how she knew
But I guess that's what happens
when pretty little girls
raise pretty little girls.
