The simile reinforces the narrator's unspoken fears about this new stage of her life. As she ponders the loss of her childhood, she is reminded that, with little warning, womanhood has been thrust upon her. She reaches under her skirt and feels her soft, satin slip, which she likens to the inside of her thighs. This simile again reinforces the girl's coming of age: she is now a lady and will be expected to dress like one. However, the simile also highlights the young girl's burgeoning sexuality; she is suddenly aware of the sensual lines of her body.

Despite the excitement of transition, there is also uncertainty and dread. Cofer reinforces this dread by using death-like metaphors to simultaneously inspire fascination and aversion in us:

My hair has been nailed back with my mother’s

black hairpins to my skull. Her hands

stretched my eyes open as she twisted

braids into a tight circle at the nape

of my neck. I am to wash my own clothes

and sheets from this day on, as if

the fluids of my body were poison, as if

the little trickle of blood I believe

travels from my heart to the world were

shameful. Is not the blood of saints and

men in battle beautiful? Do Christ’s hands

not bleed into your eyes from His cross?

The words "skull," "poison," "blood," "battle," and "bleed" leads one to think of suffering and death. There is also great violence in the passage above. The narrator compares the process of being prepared for her Quinceanera to a violent death ritual. Suddenly, she is no longer in control of her hair, hands, or head. She must look the part for the celebrations. Tragically, however, no one has asked the narrator about her preferences. She is left to quietly lament that she must wash her own clothes and sheets "from this day on." Since no one has bothered to explain to her that adulthood comes with responsibilities, the narrator is left to deduce that her menstrual blood is somehow "shameful" and destructive to her feminine identity. Her words show that her mother (and also, perhaps the other adults in her life) have demonstrated little empathy for her during this tumultuous time in her life. Quietly, the narrator questions why other types of blood are honored, while hers must be scrubbed away in private. The alliterative "battle beautiful" is combined with war and religious imagery to reinforce the narrator's negative emotions. Like any fifteen-year-old on the cusp of adulthood, she nourishes mixed feelings about this new stage of her life. Her ambivalence is further reinforced with a masterful simile in the last sentence of the poem:

I am wound like the guts of a clock,

waiting for each hour to release me.