I wonder if you know yet that plastic surgery can’t fix what’s on
the inside, that spray tans only make your skin darker and if you
want something to take away the darkness between your bones,
then you’d better find another cure to make yourself lighter.
Dear Miss America, my five-year-old cousin tries her
two-piece swimsuit on daily, the one with the pink bikini top
and bottoms even a mouse couldn’t fit into, just to see
if prancing around half-naked will make her feel better about herself.
Dear Miss America, so far it hasn’t.
I’ve heard that beauty and pain are best friends, but so far
neither of them have shown up on my back porch
begging to go to the mall together. Maybe the saying should be
that pain always stabs beauty in the back when she’s not looking.
The first time my ex-boyfriend watched you walk across the stage,
hair extensions swinging over your shoulders like jungle vines,
it was the last time we ever went on a date.
He only paid attention to the swimsuit competition
instead of listening to you struggle through pointing out
Russia and Vietnam on the map.
You called it the USSR instead.
Dear Miss America, that glittery white sash they strap across
your body like a straitjacket is the equivalent of a noose
for the torso. As soon as you put it on, you’re never getting
back off that pedestal. From now on you’ll be known
as the blonde girl who wore her implants on her sleeve
instead of her heart. Dear Miss America,
my thirteen-year-old niece is braver than you:
she wears the battle scars on her left wrist with pride
instead of covering them up with Magic Bronzer.