Spoken Word Poem
When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty?"
What comes next? Oh right, "Will I be rich?”
Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop.
And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells.
The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?”
Face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.
But puberty left me this fun house mirror dryad- Teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose,
Explore Our Articles and Examples
Try Our Other Websites!
Photos for Class
– Search for School-Safe, Creative Commons Photos (It Even Cites for You!
– Easily Make and Share Great-Looking Rubrics
– Create Custom Nursery Art