For the ones who picked

For the ones who picked up their crayons and painted with every color that suits them, and where looked at different for pleasing themselves out of lines and boundaries.

For the star pupils; the fancy pencil lovers, role players with erasers to make every narrative deem fit, Barbie dressers,more bratz than Barbie really even more about the fits than everything else.

For the ones who could never speak up but picked up a pen to take life notes and tell their stories in permanent;The ones who told their secrets in slum books than they did in their dairies, for the cynics  who touched themselves to Harlequin novels when all the boys fell short with honest lies that didn’t taste good in their tongues and selfish promises that you could never swallow.

For the bastard of the parties;the ones fathers never saw as their daughters, referred to as their mothers child but refuse to be their mothers daughters knowing how that story goes, because it meant being acknowledged for all the wrong reasons that had everything to do with pleasing everyone else and nothing to do with them. 

For the ones who have had one too many rainy days to be bothered about crying in public, leaving running mascaras out of line but have traded their crayons for blushes being able to put on a beautiful mask whenever ignoring background noise from faceless people who don’t know you’ve always been an artist.

For the ones who didn’t allow the rancor from the men who’d say just about anything to have a piece of ass, who are aware that they are not only far beyond that but are experiencing new pieces of themselves age in to personalities and would rather rub it out climaxing, returning to a body biting down lip keeping it all to themselves than share everything with men undeserving of even faking it. 

You’re loved if you’ve won, you’re loved if it’s just the beginning, you’re loved keep going.