Lexie Barker
They say a body is a temple.
Skin hairless, blubbery and filled with fat,
a sign of youth. Babyfat, they would say
Growing pains in my calves, each step
burning and aching, foretelling of womanhood.
One day, I went up to my mother, whispering nervously,
that my chest hurt, my nipples. My mother,
told me harshly to not say that in front of guests,
and that I was developing breasts.
The confusion and discomfort of wearing shirts,
trying to not look down at the new protrusions.
Thinking that everyone saw and knew what
was happening to me.
My mother told me it was a good thing, that
everyone wanted what I had. But what about me?
I didn’t want these, I didn’t want to grow up,
I still wanted to play outside and ride bikes.
No longer was my skin smooth and hairless,
my fingers caressing and picking at the red
dots appearing against my will. Nails scraping
harshly until they were met with blood.
The reflection in the mirror my worst enemy,
preying and savagely tearing apart the lines that
etched across my body to show my fast growing
woman’s body.
Do temples look like this?
This poem was inspired by “The Red Blues” in My Brother was an Aztec by Natalie Diaz