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Her Mother's Robe
Her mother’s robe drags across the floor
She continues sashaying around the room
She grabs a handful of satin fabric in order to maneuver from the closet to the vanity
Spinning around to face the mirror,
She stumbles in a pair of Michael Kors that make her feet look microscopic
The name Michael Kors means nothing to her
But she loves them anyway
Blonde knots poke out of her waist-length locks
She ignores the brush sitting on the vanity and goes straight for the accessories
The lanyard she made at camp fits with her Nike shorts like puzzle pieces
The robe and heels look out of place on her, and not just because of the size
Despite the askew outfit, her smile is fit for a model,
Her innocence molded into paparazzi-ready dimples
She struts around the runway once more,
The stage a baby blue bedroom
A myriad of puppy posters as her endearing fans
A stuffed orca critiques her fashion from the edge of the bed
He doesn’t react
She blows him a kiss anyway
Someday she won’t want to play model anymore
Someday beauty won’t be a game to show her babysitter
She’ll care about someone’s opinion, and it won’t be a plush whale
But that’s not today
She hangs her mother’s robe back in the closet
She’ll wear it again in a few years when it fits her
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To love is to be vulnerable; Triumph is born out of struggle; We notice shadows most when they stand alone in the midst of overwhelming light.