#years-old

In the last hour of my

  eleventh year,

a scowling, harvest moon rose high and hard

and refused to set.

Crimson stained my thighs

as I donned the body of a woman

with none of the benefits.

Stubborn and judgemental and insecure,

   I longed to duck behind

   a rotting oak

   until I was grown.

Rabid preteens made mockery of my sexuality

because I was not Female Enough-

and I didn’t brush my hair for two straight years

and I didn’t smile, not even once

because smiling was for