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My Quinceañera, 2019 

Pristine princess with a porcelain face 
dressed head to toe in rose and gold.  

Curls coiled and still in place. Our last waltz  
while the triumph trumpets of womanhood 
trumpets through the air like victory claimed, 
but the little girl inside me has died, 
the ashes disguised as shimmer  
embroidered on her skirt.  

I whisper my goodbyes in her ear as I hold  
her tight. I tell her she will sit in my bedroom  
and watch my Converse change into flats  
and the sweatpants turn into skirts, and that some day  
we’ll both be punished by daggered eyes.  

I have now grown into my mother’s face and  
my father’s charm. I am at the cusp  
of adulthood yet I still remember  
her trim and lace swaying  
while her crown stayed in place.  

I am no longer the girl that held her 
but the woman that she helped raise. 

Dayanara Guzman

Muñeca