Tell me it’s wrong the scarlet nails my son sports or the toy store rings he clusters four jewels to each finger. He’s bedecked. I see the other mothers looking at the star choker, the rhinestone strand he fastens over a sock. Sometimes I help him find sparkle clip-ons when he says sticker earrings look too fake. Tell me I should teach him it’s wrong to love the glitter that a boy’s only a boy who’d love a truck with a remote that revs, battery slamming into corners or Hot Wheels loop-de-looping off tracks into the tub. Then tell me it’s fine - really - maybe even a good thing - a boy who’s got some girl to him, and I’m right for the days he wears a pink shirt on the seesaw in the park. Tell me what you need to tell me but keep far away from my son who still loves a beautiful thing not for what it means - this way or that - but for the way facets set off prisms and prisms spin up everywhere and from his own jeweled body he’s cast rainbows - made every shining true color. Now try to tell me - man or woman - your heart was ever once that brave.
Bedecked- Victoria Redel (via freudian-slipped)
