Don’t steal my lipstick from my purse and rub it on your lips like a girl, saying lies about chapped lips; I don’t need your stuff now I got my own money, got a phone too; when you come home from school, put your uniform in the hamper; the art teacher pays me to pose, Mama, sketches me in charcoal; put on a clean teeshirt and jeans, don’t wear my pink robe ever, my nose can find your sissy smell on my clothes; teacher calls me his angel, his paradise, calls me Adonis; when you use the toilet remember do your business quick and don’t be lingering, your head in some book of paintings; teacher says God sent me to him; when your father visits this weekend, don’t let him see you walk like a girl, sit with your back straight; when I put my clothes back on and I sing, the art teacher says my voice makes the heavens weep; don’t give your father anything to eat or drink, not a crumb, not a sip of water; Papa says I can visit New York anytime; you’ll grow up like your father, running with strange men; I’m moving to New York City, soon as I’m 18; you won’t be like him, not as long as I breathe, remember I can see into your soul no matter what you try and hide; Papa says you know about me, Mama, he says you’ve always known.