I was probably eight or nine at the time,
playing with my Barbie,
writing poetry
about Perfect Girls,
with your perfect hips
and your perfect lips
and your perfect hair
with me
wondering what it’s like to be you,
hot velvet
melting hearts
like butter
like some glorified cheerleader
an urban cinderella
in heels at the met gala
instead of me
banished to the sidelines
to play with the bad boys
and the demons that made me run
free and loose,
like the square root of my fractured hypotenuse.
So let me wallow in my sacred and scarred imperfection
let me touch the healing sun
and not burn
while I’m dancing with weeds
and wildflowers
and the untamed ones
so different, ignored or dissected
so brilliantly misunderstood.
Are you just like me, you perfect girls
with your demons and dreams
to frolic in the perfection of moondust and raindrops,
embers and ashes
you ride the subway
stitch the stars
mend the moon
set the world on fire
fan the flames
and make sure everyone and everything is safe.
I know the truth.
You are the healers, the wheelers and dealers
that help navigate through an imperfect world
with your perfect hips
and your perfect lips
and your perfect hair
you are the girls of moondust,
you perfect girls.
© Connie Song 2024. All Rights Reserved.
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