I once knew a girl,

Who was told,

When she was small,

“Pretty girl,”

Whenever she wore,

A beautiful dress,

A bejeweled hat,

Or a pair of sparkly shoes.

So when she grew up,

And went into high school,

She picked every outfit with precision,

Because that made her a “Pretty girl.”

She didn’t believe in comfy clothes,

Because she had been never called “Pretty girl,”

While wearing them.

So each day she made herself “pretty,”

By wearing the clothes,

Everyone else who was considered “pretty,”

Wore.

She bought beauty products by the dozen,

Because in middle school,

The day she wore lipstick and mascara,

Her parent’s cooed,

“Oh, what a pretty girl.”

And so,

She tried to become a “Pretty girl.”

She wore heels,

And cute strappy sandles,

Because in her last year,

Of middle school,

When she wore a pair,

Her parents told her,

“Oh, how grown up and pretty you look!”

She drove herself to be pretty,

Using everything she thought made her so,

But oh my darling,

You’ve been beautiful all along.