horny and corny

From the age of twelve we were told that if boys pulled our hair, or poked us with pencils, it meant that they liked us. But we didn’t like it that much.

We were thirteen years old when we would walk down the street and had men look from our feet to our face, and we listened as they completely replaced our identity from human to object, as they said cringe worthy things to us. We wanted to run. We were frozen in place, but continued walking fast-pace, turning on whatever sidewalk was closest just to get away. Even if it didn’t lead us in the way that we were originally going. Because momma always said “If you see a strange man following you, go to the other side of the street, and remember, if they ever grab you scream.” And that is something we had to learn at the age of thirteen. Because we are just young fiends.

We were spanked by the boys at our school, but it was cool, because it just meant we had nice bodies. And they rated our bodies on a scale from one to ten. And if you were a ten you would learn to spend your days hearing whistles, purring, and “damn girl” because if you were a “damn girl” that meant you weren’t a “damn girl” at all you were just a toy labeled “do whatever you want to me, even though I don’t agree.”

And we had to watch what we wore because if to much shoulder was showing, we had to change our clothing because it distracted the boys from their learning. So the only thing we were learning were tips and tricks to tie our shirt up so that it didn’t hang too low, because that would show the guys that we want it.

Because wearing shorts and tank tops meant we were flaunting it.

So when we were sixteen, we screamed. Because the men that followed us on sidewalks, finally caught up to us. We quietly said, “Please don’t touch us there. We know we’re asking for it by wearing these heels, but we just feel so uncomfortable. So stop.” but that meant go. We said no, but that meant yes, so they grabbed us, and unzipped our dress. They threw us down, where our dignity sank lower than the ground. They hovered over us, and we pleaded for them to stop. They get on top and you don’t need to know the rest, because we are some of the 68 percent of victims that will never tell a soul. So we’ll just grab our dresses, and go home. Take a few showers, and try to get some sleep. In the morning we will pick out the outfit that is the most discreet, because we want to make sure no other man from the street thinks we look sweet enough to want a taste. We want to make sure that we are as covered as possible so that our identities are not replaced with “walking candy.”

And we will sit at the back of the class, where nobody will ask how our weekend was because if they asked we may just burst into tears. And we will live in fear. We will run home so that we never see the same men again that wait for us to be alone.

We went from pencils poking us to men provoking us.

We went from little boys pulling our pony tails to, watching the trail of tears fall down our pillow every night.