with love to Chappell Roan

Home for the holidays, I spent the evening sexting from my childhood bedroom. He wrote, tell me how you want it, to which I wanted to respond, tell me if any desire can leave the brain or if they’re all stacked in there turning, but less cryptically, I wrote I want you to have all of me. Of course, he can’t. But he was into the maneuver, went on to list what he’d do, said I’d be a good little princess. For years, I entered the beauty pageant held by my town’s fair, choosing a hand-me-down dress and kitten heels from the trash bags given to us by the parents of rich church kids. On stage, I’d curtsy for a crowd of sunburnt adults eating potato twisters and sloshing back Coors Light. And the same woman who judged every town contest would ask an unfortunate question, like what’s your dream first date? and I’d say, I’m twelve. But my friend Clara, bless her heart I hated her, said she’d want to eat tenderloin at our only diner. I’d come in second or third or fourth. I wasn’t beautiful enough for the title, until, one year, instead of curling my hair, I stole half a cigarette and the abandoned bottom of a beer from a chipping picnic table. When the time came, I strode onto that stage like Cindy Crawford or Madonna, regurgitating Clara’s nonsense before she could. They crowned me town princess with Party City plastic, then for years forgot I was royalty, calling me a half-baked slut who lied to cause damage. I still wave driving through our only four-way, but that’s all too long to text. I sent the raindrop emoji instead.