Girlhood. 

I’m told girlhood is

short and sweet,

Girlhood means I am

meant to be,

I want to be,

sugar, spice, and everything nice,

and that is

femininity?

Picked apart and put back together

in every wrong order.

I am a girl, I am

fragile like a bomb

that lingers in the back

of my throat, bittering my tongue

like Tanqueray,

a mind rubbed away like

carpet burn, I am

pores clogged with

the spit of a man

trying to sink into my skin

a little deeper.

I am silent

as I try so desperately to

catch each tear and 

shove them back into 

my eyelashes so maybe

they’ll grow.

But I am as dank as my

washed up eyes

as they tell me

“you are a woman now,”

and I fear that is worse,

because the wreckage of

our worlds

looks a little prettier

when we are young,

before we can understand that

beauty is pain, and pain is the

true divine feminine

that I hate so dearly.

So society kisses my cheeks

in my final throes, lips wet

with the shame it spilt all over me

for being something as disgusting

as a woman.