When a girl is born with a hand upon her head, 

She's pinned down by a green ribbon 'round her neck

And a river of shame that flows through her breasts.

 

But it's her hands that continue to bloom, 

Soft and warm as sunlight christening June, 

Born to create, condemned to servitude. 

 

But it's her womb that invites public scrutiny.

An under-studied double bind of artistry,

Obscene if filled, wretched if empty.

 

But it's her tall, selfish legs steadying her pace,

Ankles strutting beyond the perimeter of her veil, 

And toes pushing away her downcast gaze

 

That scoff at the futility of the green ribbon.

For unbeknownst to her, her head can carry the weight of her aspirations

Without tumbling away into the hands of her guardians.