When did you learn that being different was so wrong?

Was it the woman before you? Or the one before her

                  Who told you to be yourself, just to slap the wildflowers from your grimy hands and replace them 

                                   with red roses.

When you played in the garden, did you wear a white dress?

Was that perfect dress coated in mud? When you were called in for dinner

                                  Who reprimanded you for ruining the dress She never told you 

                                                    not to soil.

When you never played outside again, did She ask “whatever happened to your adventures?”

Was it you who forgot? Or was it Her

                                                Who doesn’t remember playing in the wildflower field, 

                                                             covered in dirt.

When you finally took the ribbon out of your pigtails,

Was it your Mother? Or your Mother’s Mother

                                                                Who told you it was time 

                                                                                                 to grow up.