Her mother’s robe drags across the floor

She continues sashaying around the room

She grabs a handful of satin fabric in order to maneuver from the closet to the vanity

Spinning around to face the mirror,

She stumbles in a pair of Michael Kors that make her feet look microscopic

The name Michael Kors means nothing to her

But she loves them anyway

Blonde knots poke out of her waist-length locks

She ignores the brush sitting on the vanity and goes straight for the accessories

The lanyard she made at camp fits with her Nike shorts like puzzle pieces

The robe and heels look out of place on her, and not just because of the size

Despite the askew outfit, her smile is fit for a model,

Her innocence molded into paparazzi-ready dimples

She struts around the runway once more,

The stage a baby blue bedroom

A myriad of puppy posters as her endearing fans

A stuffed orca critiques her fashion from the edge of the bed

He doesn’t react

She blows him a kiss anyway

Someday she won’t want to play model anymore

Someday beauty won’t be a game to show her babysitter

She’ll care about someone’s opinion, and it won’t be a plush whale

But that’s not today

She hangs her mother’s robe back in the closet

She’ll wear it again in a few years when it fits her