A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
at 6am when you’re waking to go to work, to school, or whatever road life takes you on, and when you didn’t sleep well, your hair is a mess, and your eyes are sleepy.
at 8am when we say goodbye for the day and you’re rushing out the door with a cup of tea and your car keys in the other hand.
at 5pm when you’re exhausted from the day and people have worn you out and you feel like crying, and falling asleep and escaping from everything. I will kiss your forehead, and wrap myself in your arms.
at 10pm when you’re heading to bed, even though you won’t sleep for hours. Especially when we become a human knot wrapped up in sheets and kisses.
at 3am when loneliness and sadness do not destroy you, but consume you and when you weep without an explanation, I’ll kiss your lips softly and tell you you’re the absolute best and that things will be better soon
I will love you when you grow old, and I will love you after that. I will love you if I’m no longer here. I will love you, I will love you, and I will love you. I Promise To Love You Forever (via iamcharliesangel)