Girl stands alone in her bathroom
pleading for solace.
Eyes lock on the mirror,
the reflection of a girl with possibilities a mere stain.
She is there,
in every corner that Girl turns.
Girl turns on the water faucet to conceal her cries.
She hopes for a better tomorrow,
for hips that curve in all the right places
and teeth that aren't crooked
and a nose like a button.
Girl turns the knob,
louder the water's thunderous cries echo off the walls ensuring safety.
Voices of innocence, children who sing and are happy live within that water.
They sing, "Come, come, come with us, where no worries will follow,
come, come, come with us, we'll help abandon all the sorrow."
Girl whispers, "I just want to be pretty.
Pretty is all I want."
Pretty are knees hitting the floor,
pretty is hair slung over the shoulder,
pretty is coughs and wails and heaves faithfully concealed by the roar of the water still running.
But pretty does not exist.
Pretty isn't the emptiness of once lively eyes.
Pretty isn't the pasty ghost of skin
with cheek bones sunken in.
Pretty isn't dark circles,
isn't ribs that prickle.
"Pretty" is Girl's concept.
Pretty is an ideal,
but not a promise.