The Show
Dressed in pink and told to smile,
Handed mirrors to check the bruises.
Learn early, hips sway one way,
Truth another.
The music is always too loud,
But dance anyway, barefoot on broken glass,
Each step a secret swallowed.
We clap like thunder while they bleed quietly,
Into the sequined curtains of their girlhood.
And still, we call it a Coming of Age,
As if pain is just another word for growing up.
