On Being a Woman

I was a few months shy of thirteen, scared and angry,
Not wanting to become a woman, mourning the loss of my own innocence
Before understanding what being a woman in a man's world entails.
I wiped and wiped, willing the drops to go away,
Somehow convincing myself that it was all just a mistake.
For a little while I believed the fiction I had painted over
One of the core truths that I live with every day, pushed it aside
As the swing went higher and higher with every calculated kick.
I liked my flat chest and my red, snoopy shorts.
"You are a woman now", my mom said later.
And while no essays of hers could have prepared me for what the word
Can come close to meaning, I knew it meant change.
And I was never one to like change, I disliked the unknown.
My mother had prepared me for that moment long before it had happened.
She showed me where she kept the sanitary pads, under the sink-
A practical guide to embracing your puberty as a woman.
My grandmother had told me that it would hurt, at times,
But she never told me about the many ways the world
Will hurt my feelings and put me down because of it.
There was no mention of victim blaming or name calling,
The way they will continue to ask "but what was the girl wearing",
Or how walking alone at night is a luxury I might not always have.
There was no mention of the unspoken expectations
That come with a pair of breasts, of the Madonna-Whore complexes
That existed from Rosetti and Austen's time, of the constant struggle
Between societal expectations and one's own and how they can get muddled
In a web of our own making, because after all, you are but a product
Of the very society that glamourizes a woman and her appearance,
But shames her and puts her down if she steps out of the box
That is patriarchal ideals and misogynist ideologies.
So how are we supposed to raise young girls into women
When your world and mine insists on equating the two?