the song on the radio
makes you think of
yet another middle school
dance you didn’t want to
be at
but your mother had
already given you the four
dollars for the door fee, and
wouldn’t be back to
get you for another few hours
and it’s dark in the gym,
atmosphere that feels suffocating
and stagnant to you sporadically cut
through by bright winking lights
the little black dress with the
pink band around the middle is
accentuating all the wrong parts
of your body, and you long for
oversized hoodie, sneakers, and jeans
and the only boy you want to
dance with, doesn’t want to
dance with you
still don’t know if you want to
be with him
or be him,
still won’t know, over a decade later,
thought this no longer keeps you up at night
but you want his hands on
your hips, think and hope and pray
that this simple gesture could
ground you in girlhood
and this boy, with his tawny hair
and kind eyes, doesn’t know that
you’re a boy, too
and neither do you, right then
all you do know is that you’re a
girl who feels wrong in her skin,
and even worse in that
little black dress with the pink
band around the middle
and the boy you want to
dance with, doesn’t want to
dance with you