<p>I’m seven <br />
pushing my bike down the lane <br />
the crunchy gravel sounds delicious</p>
walking is therapeutic but
I’m seven
pushing my bike down the lane
the crunchy gravel sounds delicious
sour cream and onion chips
and the tinkle of sparkly pink handlebar streamers
a man turns
I cringe without knowing why
walking alone at night is
my friend tells me men look at her chest
we’re at the supermarket sitting on the floor, waiting for our parents
we’re fifteen
she’s disgusted
I’m jealous
idiotic.
I walk anyway
brave and
I look at boys at seventeen
I keep waiting for it to feel like pink chiffon
light and airy
a frisson of first-look longing
but I always
tense first
arrogant.
I hold my breath as I walk past three men
their gaze hits my stomach, soup-heavy sick
I’m reminded of jackals
I’m reminded
I attached a padlock to my keys
when I was twenty: deadly weapon
I’m thinking about having it
engraved with womanhood
I’m meat
or maybe a pomegranate
arils and arils spilling out of me onto the asphalt
pink and round like blood clots