Could you perhaps explain to me
the exact way to show off that sliver of skin
between the cuff of my shirt and the edge of my
mother-of-pearl glove buttoned tight against my skin.
you could teach me the art of just barely-
just enough so you can feel it,
but not any more.
Because I am apparently
a thing controlled only by hormone
with no sway in my own actions-
(because one thing only leads to another,
and if you can be near a boy-
a young man-
who knows where you’ll stop?)
I’m just a teenage-hormone machine,
and my only drive
is for sex,
I know that you’re just
“looking out for me”
because you don’t want me to be
another teenage pregnancy
with another silent tear-stained abortion.
But all I hear is static
and that all of a sudden I’m not a
“mature young lady” who
“has her head screwed on right”.
I’m not “oh, she has such good grades”
or “she’s going places” anymore.
I’m just some wanton slut
and maybe that’s not how you see it
but that’s how I hear it
and all of a sudden
So I’ll compress my hurt
into a lead ball to sit comfortably
between my ribs
and remind me to not be so
Because perhaps you waited
months and months
to hold your boyfriend’s hand-
but I don’t love
like I have time
(like you tell me to-
because maybe he’ll be “the one”
and then I’ll have the rest of my life).
I love like I will loose him tomorrow
because odds are,
All things end.
All friendships, all connections-
and most frequently,
But just because I see
what I have as finite-
does not mean that I’m going to
make the same mistake as my so called friends,
in dark rooms of seedy motels.
Because I do
have my head screwed on straight
and my priorities intact-
and while I may derive some pleasure
in the mutual warmth of a hug
and his familiar scent
I do indeed control my body
and my “teenage hormones”
do not define me.
I have come for my glove fitting-
and a corset drawn too tight.
I will be a perfect little lady, you see.
Shy and demure-
if only you’ll explain it to me.