I see you, girl.

Yes you, with the Velcro mouth,

and your backward strokes.

How long have you been on your back

floating in a sea of forgiving?

If you opened up,

would a whirlpool of disapproval

suck you straight to the bottom?

I see you,

and your good intentions,

and your I’m Sorry eyes.

You don’t wanna upset someone

with your opinion.

Everyone in the room

knows better than you

because when it’s you

it’s “no” every time.

I see you, girl.

There is unfairness in your fingertips.

Everything you touch turns to “no”

“that’s too heavy for you,”

“no, you can’t go out like that,”

“no, don’t raise your voice,”

“no, it’s your fault, apologize,”

“no, that’s too dangerous,”

“no, that’s not ladylike.”

I see you, girl.

Rolling up your sleeves

to plant your garden.

They don’t know first-hand

that the dirt comes first,

or how it gets under your nails

because then comes the manicure.

And the leeches making

great grandma’s cheeks rosy.

House plants hiding spiked drinks.

The planning it takes to reroute

your lunch to the Atlantic

instead of your stomach.

And the whirlpool you get in the pit of it

when you think someone is following you.

I see you,

and the body you shrunk in the wash.

And after the world shows you

just how rough it can get,

it washes its hands in your laundry.

Everything’s stained pink,

so, you gotta love pink now.

When you’re older you will

wrap your baby girl up in

pink blankets

because pink is for girls,

according to someone,

for some reason.

Pink is so feminine.

Pink is so lovely.

Pink is when you can’t rinse out

the blood from your white button-up.

I see you, girl.

You are the strongest hues of red

that refuse to let go.