She sits with her hands
crossed carefully before her knee
disguising the new womanhood
that she deems unworthy for the world to see

Her legs, which were once bony and thin
are now burdened by a layer of fat, thick skin

And her chest, which was once flat and straight
has been obstructed by just more, unnecessary weight
And her eyes say,
“Sorry dad that I can’t be your little girl”
“Sorry mom that my legs are too thick
and my arms too long
and my neck too short
and my proportions all wrong
And I’m sorry that you can no longer sing me that song…

The one about your beautiful baby
growing up to get any guy
because saying I’m beautiful and desirable
we both know is a blatant lie.”

I pity this girl, who’s been painted in puberty
stuck in such a vulnerable place
never to be set free

And I wish I could tell her
that she’ll blossom into a real woman some day
But she’s been frozen in a time
One in which she will forever stay

Because a painting freezes time
Creates a world in which past and future cease to be real
It’s an outlet into a specific moment
where an artist can elicit what he wants us to feel

But when I see this painting
I can only feel the painted girl’s pain
For she’ll never have a future
in which she can escape puberty’s dark, tormenting stain

She was painted imperfect
and placed on a white, bare bed
given no type of cover or shield
just naked from toe to head

And again I see her eyes
which appear more apathetic than I first saw
And it’s as if the painted girl’s accepted
That she will have to forever exist in flaw