girl

seven years old in the streets of Mexico

and I knew what being a girl meant.

a man raking dead summer leaves off the street taught me,

calling me names like pretty and baby

until he saw my Dad’s face screaming

she’s seven

followed by a series of words

I knew I wasn’t allowed to say

 

I knew again when I got off a train

holding much more then my small

fifteen year old frame could carry

in a city I’d never seen,

alone and scared.

a man almost three times my age asked

can I help you carry something?

I smiled gratefully

and he said

because he was such a gentleman

he deserved a date

I replied

I’m flattered but I’m only fifteen

 

and again when

the words

no.

meant nothing

because being a girl

means doing what you’re told

in a list of rules

like cross your legs

and cover your shoulders

skirts past your fingertips

you’re asking for it

don’t swear, it’s not ladylike

 

when you’ve been told

your whole life

that boys are only mean to you

because they like you

and that princesses

get locked away in high towers

or are eternally asleep

until they are saved by princes

 

and when you ask why

they answer:

because

that’s just how it is