[i]
my girlhood clings to me,
a petulant young girl
not quite ready to let go
of her mother's skirts.
its scent
is a mix of
apple scented lotions,
and foreheads slicked with
sweat from
an afternoon's worth
of play.
i struggle
to hear its voice,
but my ears are far too stuffed,
blocked with
cotton balls dripping
with self-made poison.
joy strikes my chest.
i finally grew up.
[ii]
my girlhood calls to me
this time
it yells into my ear
scratchy and high-pitched
i walk away.
i have grown
far too tall for this forest
the trees of my childhood
barely scratching
the tips of my toes
[iii]
my girlhood is now a foreign memory,
a foreign place,
a foreign name.
it slips off my tongue
with the least amount
of urgency
yet when i close
my eyes at night
surrounded by a blanket
of heartache
and on a bed of
stress fuelled tears
it is my girlhood
i dream of.
[iv]
i always wanted
to grow up
and be a big girl
like my mama said
she wanted me to be.
so i donned some makeup
on my wood skin
and i paraded myself around
a Big Girl, i claimed
and tugged on my limbs
like a puppeteer would
to his puppet
[v]
my girlhood
is still stitched on me
thread cross-stitched
and looped
into my spine
and the ridges
of my hands
and feet
i attempt to break free
for i am too big
for this pearly white
dress
[vi]
my girlhood has become
a masochist dream
for it hurts to look back on
that age of innocence
and young wonderment
but i still see it,
take it and swallow it
for nostalgia is bitter
but sweet when
fully digested.
[vii]
my girlhood has
consisted of
my mama telling me
to grow up
and so i did.
i stuffed my mouth
with ideas
and knowledge
that did not come out
from my own brain.
now here i sit
and here i fester,
under a tree so large,
in a dress too small,
with conflicting
and confusing ideas
lingering in the
wooden box
in my head.
anger strikes my chest.
i grew up too fast.
YOU ARE READING
I, Girl
Poetryi am my own god, my own spirit, my own prayer. -- a complete series of 44 poems concerning girlhood, dread, and catholic guilt.
