Uproar

I take off the robe of the good girl. The obedient and pleasing one.

The one who’s constrained. Trapped in being something that’s not real.

Lost in having perfect hair and nails.

They tell me how beautiful I am, but then want to keep all that beauty to themselves.

And all of a sudden I’m a doll kept behind glass. Polished and pretty.

In Brazil they babybliss and blow dry my hair. Wax my legs and paint my nails.

And I let them. Pay them. Waste my time in beauty parlours. To belong. To be pretty. To be loved and admired and for every day that goes by I loose a little bit of sparkle in my eyes.

One day I have enough. I let the pool water wash away the curls and my nails chip to let them know I’m alive. I’m a living breathing thing.

I break the glass window and leave town.

I have never liked to be kept behind walls.

I get on a boat and go deep into the Pantanal to ride with the cowboys.

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