There’s a fly in my banana muffin
and damp grass on the backs of my calves.
And I am the picture of beautiful youth
living for the simplicity of spring and the sun on my skin.
In my dress cut from one sheath of cloth
and pen and pages to record more about here, and now, than anything else.
Alone—and sweaty and dirty but pretty,
But not like other girls.
Indifferent not like other girls.
Unashamed not like other girls.

There’s a cloud in front of my sun
and wind blowing my skirt up to my calves.
And I am the picture of foolish youth
living like she can play with her age when she can barely look her real one.
On my beach towel on the yard like it’s summer—it’s not.
Alone—and sweaty and dirty—not pretty—because now my hair is tangled and in my face
Not like other girls.
Frazzled not like other girls.
Dry not like other girls.
Rough not like other girls.

There’s a rainstorm pouring outside my house
and I barely made it in, sticky and moist and itchy
Out of the shape of my skin out of touch with myself.
Never grew positive
like other girls.
Never grew brazen
like other girls.
Never became like other girls.