Growing up Conservative
Growing up conservative is growing up a slave
Is growing up being told that my body is not my own
That my hips, my thighs, my breasts, my body is not my own
That my body belongs to my parents first and the man that will marry me second.
The man that will wrap a ring around my finger like a noose
Leaving me to be chained forever to the same dull tree
Being told that my worth is defined by the freshness of the blossoms budding between my thighs
That if a man breaks through my garden walls
Leaves my flowers without one petal
Leaves their stems and roots burning
It is my fault for not giving myself the burden of thorns
That my worth is determined by the freshness of one single flower
As if I myself am not a whole forest
Full of loving and longing, sensuality and sensibility
Yes, a few of my trees have been scorched, cut down, left to die
But that does not make my garden less beautiful
It does not make my forest less alive
It does not dim the vivid tones of the flowers which refuse to be defeated
Growing up conservative is being told that my garden is shameful
That I must never admire my forests’ beauty
That my flowers are not worthy of affection
That they are worthless weeds stretching through the concrete
Growing up loving myself gave me the key to my own garden
It made the ashes of forests burned blossom into a beautiful valley of flowers, to be loved by anyone worthy of their entity.