She
can subtract four inches.
She
gains four points
toward a higher measure of validation,
a higher probability of approval
punctuated by the stretch and curve
of all those other lips.

She
traces the squares of the linoleum.
She
wears checkered oven mitts
to silence the threats her heart beats
into her ears.
She
knows everything is perfect with fours
and in fours
mathematically
and
aesthetically.

They are control.
They are a perfect arrangement.

She
treats them as she attempts
to treat her personality;
arranges them
with the timid tapping of her finger.
She
uses her Crayolas
to color the squares within the squares
of graph paper.

Even on all sides
and all sides the same.
They are perfection.
Pristine.
Never a dull thing,
a stupid thing,
a nervous or gullible thing,
but perfect
and straight
and strong
just as

She
is none of those things.