Speak softly as the static between Spanish talk show stations. Replace your hands with perennial bulbs. Your heart is a cotton blossom, but ideas can only be classified as deciduous. You are Pantone Color of the Year, the muse for the American Fever Dream.
An integral part of becoming a woman is receiving instructions; never walk alone, always clutch your keys between your index and ring fingers if it's inevitable. Learn to prepare and serve meals, but never clean your plate. Let him stay out late with his boys, cancel another conference call to help him find the aspirin for his hangover. Paint your eyes like August every morning, but never keep your man waiting for more than a few minutes. Shave your legs every day. Never interrupt. Always blot your lipstick.
He is right. You are wrong.
It's bullshit.
Butter your toast, stir six spoons of sugar into your tea. When your brother tells your red nail polish looks trashy, add an extra coat. Wear, eat, do and say whatever you want. Read fanfiction, newspapers, Nicholas Sparks paperbacks. Advocate for others and yourself, Listen to the discourse. Contribute. Grow. Crickets, candies, and crystal earrings are small. You are not an accessory. You don't have to fit.
Compliment the girl in front of you in chemistry lecture.
She might not know she's noticed yet.
