Jun 20, 2017
12
In the last hour of my
eleventh year,
a scowling, harvest moon rose high and hard
and refused to set.
Crimson stained my thighs
as I donned the body of a woman
with none of the benefits.
Stubborn and judgemental and insecure,
I longed to duck behind
a rotting oak
until I was grown.
Rabid preteens made mockery of my sexuality
because I was not Female Enough-
and I didn’t brush my hair for two straight years
and I didn’t smile, not even once
because smiling was for
blessed beings.