My hair isn't silky, and it frizzes in wet weather

My clothes are muted because of their wondering gazes

Martians that don’t know me with blurry faces

My mother tells me to abide by a different standard

But I want to be like Heather with the short skirt and the cropped blue sweater

But I'm imprisoned to regulations out of my control.

And in my mind, the words I speak are sprouting cautiously and slow,

Because I know the gospel melody that sings,

The harsh melody that carries through my ears.

A reminder.

It rings.

The girl I want to be is not the woman I am told

I want the life, the glitter, the roses, the hold, and more

To see a superstar that mirrors me living a life of galore

But the storyline of Gamora is what I’m reduced to

Peers will ask…

Why would you dream to be Heather?

But if you were in my position,

If you had the chance to fly from a bird's-eye view

Somewhere deep down, you’d begin to yearn for the life of Heather too