a tribute to seventeen years
i remember being eight
tight braids in my hair and legs crossed firmly like a good little girl,
my cheeks burning crimson when the other girls laughed, asking, "what do you mean you don't know what a cock is?"
then researching peacocks, cockatoos until - oh.
then i read those american girl books for hours on end, tucking them under my bedsheets until mummy went and took them out, to my embarassment.
someday, you'll wish you didn't know. someday, you'll wish you had've been in complete oblivion to what a penis is
so that you wouldn't know what it is
when prematurely faced with one.
i remember being ten
hair still in tight braids to illude to an image of stability,
watching the world through distracted eyes, worn eyes -
you are different.
unlike the girls who were escorted out of health class because they were too giggly, you sat stone-faced;
shamed that you remember and shamed that you can't forget.
someday you'll wish you just said no, that he didn't blame you because you liked