For prom I wore a hoop.
Starchy billows stretched
along a circular tension rod.
Imitation whalebone
whopped and flexed as
I squeezed through the door.
Underneath,
cool air tickled my thighs,
like fireflies
kissing the moon.
I pretended I
really was
that girl.
Later, in the pickup,
it arched between us
like an unneeded
chastity belt.
When we arrived home,
I opened the door
and the hoop spit me out.
I fell off the bench seat and
landed with both hands
on the sharp-edged gravel.
A rocky reminder
there is no Cinderella story
for girls like me.
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