Oh, pretty girl, you were always pretty.
Your eyes, small and smirked toward the sun, emitting the sparkle of the moon. The slippy milk that envelops your bones and spills richness over your canvas. But your light was dimmed with the dust of another's pain. So you scorched your skin, and you stained your face to beam the right color for someone else's eyes. Oh, pretty girl, let them dance in your moonlight.
Oh, pretty girl, your home was always worthy.
The way it allowed you to dance through life and drink in all of its magic in screaming color. But in every step, you learned it was better to be small. Societal suffering through every swipe across the mirror. Taking bashful bites as you try to win the war to feel good in your bones while the world is force-feeding whispers for you to lose. Prodding and poking at the hollows of your belly. Praying to any god that every foot stroke pounded in the pavement would set it free of its soft protection—chasing numbers but losing sight of the end. Oh, pretty girl, let them see your power.
Oh, pretty girl, you were always enough.
Your wit, hidden like an unrequited letter, compressed in your pocket for safekeeping. Languid moments of choking down truths while nodding along to the rhythm of the masses. Faked nods and an ever-convincing narrative: It was better to be silent. Sentenced to carry the weight of decades of the words that were unsaid. Of dreams that were unfinished, unrealized, unburied, and unmourned. Oh, pretty girl, let them hear your song.
Oh pretty girl, there is so much space for your grace in this world.
But what is made once from the Earth cannot be replicated to fulfill and profit empty souls. Girl, don't let the ugly world dim the light on you. Let your shine pour in and drown out the darkness you've learned to believe. Oh, pretty girl, let them see your power. And never let anyone make you feel just pretty.
