There once was a beautiful little girl with a white dress sewn from the threads of innocence. Everyone loved her and her quiet ways; loved her angelic face that glowed as if the sun had been captured within her skin and her eyes were like discs of blue opal. She was always happy and never fussed about anything, and wanted to grow up into a lovely woman that would have a wonderful husband and a picket-fenced house with two beautiful children.
But then she grew up. Her limbs grew long and awkward, and everyone was annoyed by her attitude and screaming about all of the anguish that was only in her head. Her face became blemished, like the craters of the cold and pale moon—her eyes listless and adorned by bags made by coffee and long nights. Her thoughts in class were penetrated by princely boys with muscles and charming smiles but none of them wanted a princess with stretchmarks and hair in places they didn’t like.
Finally her white dress bled red, and the only one who listened to her screams was her mother; and they both silently wished that she was a little girl again.