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First
you draw the head and arms,
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then
the dress, like an up side
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down
tulip split down the
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middle;
inside the middle,
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row,
row, row of lace;
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this
can take a long
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time;
lace like little
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doll
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smiles.
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Next
to the lace
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and
the silk garlands
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that
hang like frosting on either side,
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next
to those you sometimes put roses, sometimes
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bows.
This is a princess dress, and princesses are pretty.
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It's
a kind of competition you arrange for yourself, a fashion show
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for
a royal party of one; this dress must be the best dress ever.
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White
and pink are good colors, or white and blue. The princess dresses
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pile
up in the cupboard.
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One
day you realize that you are not pretty and you are not a princess.
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You
look at your hands that are so thick and coarse and say peasant.
Your
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feet
are so wide, and your toes are stubs, not glass slipper feet.
Peasant.
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You
will be the one on the flag stones with a dirty brush, the one
with the raw
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skin
from peeling too many potatoes, there is nothing special about
you, you
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have
been born into nothing but dirt. Your breasts grow large and bulbous
like
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a
peasant's, your lips are full, your words come slow. When in the
company of
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strangers
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and
boys you shake, and recede like an old train, loaded with grain
or farm equipment.
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Each
day you grow more stupid and know less about everything, while
your feet plod along
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the
clumped earth. At night you look in the mirror with your hair
pulled back and decide you
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would
make a much better boy. You start to look for a knife, or a sword,
to cut the peasant girl
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appendages
off with, something gleaming and sharp. There are no women on
horseback, ruthless
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and
bloody, just cartoon chickens with long eyelashes and girl-cats
that wag their seductive asses
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at
the cartoon dogs. To be a handsome, strong boy, that would be
better, then you would know
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what
to do. You keep looking for that knife.
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