We grew up with autographed pictures of Paula Abdul taped to our windows and walls.
But we swore we only wanted to be ballerinas.
And we wouldn't leave our high schools at such a young age,
because we were precious, but fragile. Vulnerable, but starved.
But we would fit into our lovely leggings,
and our toes would bleed and our breasts would shrink.
Until finally, our mothers' masks came on, and we moved into houses with them (again).
And we were both daughters and mothers but we were sisters with secrets, too.
And so we continued growing, but now with autographed posters of Gloria Steinem,
and we taped them to our ceilings.
But still we couldn't think of our mothers as mothers and we weren't strong enough, yet
to haul the old dresser of our pasts into the bed of his truck. "Fuck, fuck, fuck,"
we swore, the first year, before we were even half-way through.
We likened it to static on the radio or the nostalgia that old, contradictory Cobain footage holds.
Or possibly the newly emerging president who will take control of an already spoiled America.
And we recall our childhood and the "good girl" summers, and how the word "girl" meant nothing to us then.
(bad starts with boy. good starts with girl.)
And we hear our active bodies whisper, "For about four or six bucks, you can forget about it."