Don't mess, that's what they said
She outlined the lips scarlett red,
the middle rose hue.
The teachers, they left her- she knew what to do,
and her score-card came back more perfect than blue.
Don't spill, that's what they said
so she set down the teacup
avoided a fight.
Then she shook in her room, clothes folded just right
gazing far our the window; the taunt of daylight.
Years paged, the girl found
tweezers plucked at her mind like a blood hungry hound.
People covered in dirt
made her cringe, made her cower,
made her wash-wash her skirt.
She went to the church
and she sat in a pew.
And the pastor he told her: "Lovey, here's what you do."
And she did what he said,
more perfect than blue.
Yet the cage it was tightening,
and she couldn't sit down.
Her world became muddy and the stains remained brown
though she scrubbed until morning
in a flimsy night gown.
I don't see her often,
that girl around here.
And often I wonder would she know what to do,
with the juice of a mango and the wet of the dew.
Or will she forever be caught in the perfect shade of blue.
I don't know this girl, but her story saddens me. Sad because perfect stole pieces from her. Sad because we can see why she felt she had to be perfect. Sad because some of the most beautiful parts of life are found in the mess. Sad because her story is many stories. Right?