got yourself a beauty queen

You’re three.
It starts with pink ribbons and bows
pushing away boys who
giggle and laugh
and get too close again
already aware that our desires pale next to theirs

You’re six.
those boys from the park who always got too close
sit beside you and fingerpaint
and still don’t listen when you want to be left alone

You’re twelve.
that leotard from gymnastics feels even tighter when
you’re walking to the bus stop
and the jacket’s not long enough
and they are animals

You’re fifteen.
there’s no way to win
too much make-up makes a slut
and too little makes a prudish shrew
and you’re always picked last when the boys are team captain in gym class until you finally convince yourself that the short-shorts are alright

You’re eighteen.
and it hits like a wall of bricks
sex is the greatest (only) weapon you have because it’s all you’re worth
You’re twenty.
and it doesn’t feel like anything has changed
but when little boys get too close to little girls
it twists something in your gut until there’s no choice
but to go back to when you were that little girl