The Martyr of a Little Girl

Little girl, little girl, put down your doll.

Look at that little boy who looks at you with bright green eyes.

Can’t you see yourself in them?

Do you remember the pale grass your doll used to lie in?

Twas a bed, for her dreary, porcelain head.

Now find that boy, the boy with earth tones as a window.

He is that grass, and you are your doll.

Little girl, little girl, put down that chalk.

Your hands are bright red, and dusted with angry colors.

Leave the blues and browns and greens — though you love the color green — for the boys.

Draw with pinks and purples and yellows, like the dress of your long forgotten doll

Turning grey in an attic with everything that remained vibrant in your memories.

You forget the nub in your hand; you pick up white.

Little girl, little girl, put down that book.

The content is violent with ideas about self-expression.

Why would you want to change your perfect self? What God gave you?

Surely, your own self-hatred is your fault.

Zip those perfect lips and fix that wrinkle in your skirt.

We’re late for fear, bigotry, and hymn.

Little girl, little girl, put down your skirt.

Protect the innocence an adult like yourself has to feign for those around her.

But project a sexual flare in front of your uncles and your father’s business friends.

At the raw age of unacceptable.

Walk under their loud remarks about your legs, and don’t pick up the pace.

It’ll give them another thing to stare at.

Little girl, little girl, put down that tracing paper and lighter.

Don’t abuse your body all with one roll through your fingers.

Your brain will rot with mary jane, but your face will wither with nicotine.

Your mommy uses it to fit in; your daddy uses it to relax.

You don’t need either to feel complete.

At least we hope you don’t.

Little girl, little girl, put down that knife.

The steel is painted with angry colors — ones of your own but not from your body.

Is this how you thank us for all that we’ve given you?

Resistance from what we know is best.

We killed the art for the means of the artist.

But don’t use natural colors.

Little girl, little girl, put your hands up.

We loved you.

We trusted you.

We praised you.

We guided you.

We warned you.