I hate the way she looks;

But I want to look just like her.

Her olive skin and dark hair,

Her hips that curve wider and wider.

But that’s her not me.

She’s fake but I’m not good enough either.

 

It’s a putrid feeling to hate yourself because someone else told you to.

Why don’t they tell me to love me?

Because then I finally could.

I could finally give up the fight

And have the boys like me.

And have me like me.

 

The boys these days.

They’ve changed.

Those who once were my best friends,

Now frighten me with their demeanor.

I know women have always been startled by men;

But it’s a putrid feeling to catch my fright growing greener toward:

Those boys that became those men.

 

Will I ever be safe?

Will the boy I trust the most turn against me too,

When he too grows into manhood?

Will my boys ever come back?

Or will those boys always be those men?

Who do I turn to?

 

The adults ask me to do adult things but barrage me with a child’s reward and consequence

The girls still trust the boys and think it’s still a game.

But it’s not a game when lives are ruined,

& Bodies are ransacked and destroyed

if you pull the wrong name, roll bad dice.

Who do I turn to?

 

I have a feeling that only God can help me now

But that might just be what scares me the very most

As far as I’ve fallen, will God still throw me the rope?

Or does his grasp not reach to my depths?

Is this a teenage angst I have to go through alone and wait till I’m grown

To bow at his throne?

 

All I have to do is ask.

But do I really want to know?