young woeman

I am a woman
who still carries
eclectic assortments
of toys and colorful rocks
stuck with gum in my bag  –
instead of carrying
a child
in my stomach

I am a girl
a sexual girl
who has an appetite
for many,
and drugs
and lives like a thug
or a dirty, desperate man

I am a young woman.
I still fear monsters
in the dark,
the ghosts in the corner
who are timelessly vanquished
by the click of a night-light

I am a girl
who is called “woman”
by numbers and official records
and the shed, red lining of my uterus

I am a woman
called “girl”
when I defy
or hold tight to idealistic
questions of
fantastical “why’s”

Oh the Woe
of being an old girl

and a young woman –


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