Tonight, when I was slipping off my faded jeans and plain tee
I put on my old swimsuit.
It was stiff and crinkled but fit around my hips if
I left the strings undone.
Memories, as strong as the smell of chlorine, rushed back.
Remember diving into azure waters, illuminated only
by the Californian moon?

I could feel the fond gazes that I had never noticed,
coloring my cheeks pink.
Awkwardly, I tugged the hair band from my ponytail.
If I stand like this do I look like a Hawaiian princess?
If I suck in my breath could I pass as confident?

Standing in my swimsuit I find my lack of a tan disappointing,
my hair dull and flat.
I attempt to walk daintily, like the girls on TV,

but I only manage to look like a broken stork.

I refuse to give up. I owe it to myself to pick at my flaws—
to urge me on.
Who ever said I could be perfect in a night?