Splinters of Girlhood

 

Once I wore my hair long,

a river down my back,
a banner of a girl
who believed in safety.

The first cut came
when the one who should have shielded me
let the fire take me instead.
I took the scissors.
I cut.
I cut the child away.

The next cut came
when the man who whispered sweet things
found a sweeter girl
before my warmth had even cooled.
I took the scissors.
I cut.
I cut the fool away.

The next cut came
when a man with a camera
tried to frame me,
catch me,
sell pieces of me
for a story I never told.
I took the scissors.
I cut.
I cut the stolen glances away.

The next cut came
when a husband,
a father,
looked at me
like I was something he could buy.
I took the scissors.
I cut.
I cut the hunger away.

Each time,
each time,
each time—
I left a little less girl,
a little more storm.

Now,
I let it grow.
Not for softness.
Not for them.
Not for the eyes that hunger.

I let it grow for me.
Each strand,
a rope,
pulling me out of the wreckage.
Each strand,
a drumbeat,
saying:
I lived.
I lived.
I lived.