When I grow up I'd like to be a music box
Ballerina, and pirouette on tightly wound springs
That click with each revolution beneath my
Tightly bound feet. I'd like to be sheathed in pink
And childhood, be a memory instead of an action.
When I grow up I'd like to be gendered, normalized,
Less toy and more keepsake, a quiet reminder
On a shelf, of youth or what should have been.