Pinkie out, my mother told me.
Head held high, my posture warned me.
Toe pointed, my teacher clamoured.
Hair curled, my iron ordered.
Cheeks blushed, my body instructed.
Lips pursed, my femininity plotted.
Black shines, my skirt clinked.
Translucent, my legs peeked.
Just ask, my father told me.
Smile slyer, my body panted.
Blood shines, my mother muttered.
Silver and hair, the head uncovered.
Daniela Chamorro is a Nicaraguan writer, currently studying creative writing in Florida. She enjoys smart dialogue, magical realism, and chocolate.
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