Sloan Asakura
SELF AS GIRL
was i ever really a girl?
when you’re young, “girl” means
purple swimsuits, shiny mary jane shoes,
tiaras, and ballet class,
it means stealing your mom’s makeup,
shaving off your eyebrows
dreaming about scissors
it means you carry other titles
“daughter” “sister” “princess”
no one wants to tell you what “girl” really means,
but a mother’s job demands it
so she sits you down with your two sisters
and raises three fingers,
her red nail polish like split flesh,
one in three. it happens to one in three girls.
which means it will happen to one of you.
she did not know it would happen to two.
the word “girl” is made of glass,
i could break it in my palms
like a christmas ornament
let shards fester in the muscle
and push them back out, the body
rejecting shrapnel, always seeking
to have only what fits.
girl meant the world could slice me open
meant starting at age twelve,
i was owned by men
meant the night it happened was
inevitable
girl means when?
girl means why?
girl means i was a shadow
trailing behind my mother’s memory
reaching toward the sun while it cast away from me
a blue girl with a blue dress
lay flat against the asphalt like a dream
i lick the puddles as i follow
and watch the body which had become of me
five feet tall with wide hips, broad brown shoulders
black hair mid-waist makes for an easy handle, a leash
i beg the body to cut it off
beg the body to untether me
but the brown girl walks on, her feet mirrored against mine.