What pierced through the cracks

[DreamGirl]

Thank you so much, darliiing *suffocates her with hugs* Ma bucura nespus sa vad ca trezesc emotii.

Realizez ca nu am mai trecut de mult timp pe aici, timp in care am strans o mana buna de poezii, atat inspirate din propria-mi minte, cat si ca urmare a proiectului cu Secret Series de pe blog (I get secrets from people and try to make poems of them ^^; ). Pentru moment insa, voi posta doar poezii din prima categorie, as they are more personal. Prima a ajuns sa fie preferata mea, din toate cele scrise pana acum. Cat despre a doua... e inspirata, printre altele, din melodia aceasta, which has been forever haunting me. Sper sa va placa :heart:


boys will be boys

I was seven
the first time a boy lifted my knee-length uniform skirt
but my shriek was only met
with laughter
because boys will be boys
and why can't you take it more lightly
as the joke it is
and the joke you are,
don't you know it's no fun
to show even the slightest drop of resentment
against the apparently righteous hands
stripping you of the intimacy they decided you didn't deserve?
ultimately, cool girls laugh at it,
while waving the shame away
and locking it beneath a layer of thickening skin.

I was thirteen
the first time an unfamiliar hand grabbed my body
in places I never dared to let anyone touch,
let alone claim their own
and my arms still bear the burning reminder
of my futile attempt to resist
even though the purple galaxies faded a long time ago
for lack of someone to view them
as something more than just
child's play.
Boys will be boys
so in the end I should have been thankful
one of them rendered my body
worthy enough
of their careless profanity
because it doesn't matter if you wear turtlenecks
and two layers of clothes
to hide the early signs of puberty society already labelled as shameful,
it doesn't matter if you're still playing with dolls
or believing in princes from faraway lands,
if you still blush at the thought of a kiss
or wait for Santa each and every winter,
there might be age limits
on intriguing movies and mind-numbing drinks
but there's none when it comes to
the ease with which you'll learn
you're only an object on display.

I am nineteen
and I still remember to call my friends when I get home
so they would know I'm safe
and I still choose the well-lit alley
and walk with my head down
past the menacing shadows of strangers
and I still hear the distant voice of my mother
telling me boys will be boys
so if you insist on going out
in that scandalous shirt,
that shows your pale shoulders
and maybe a colourful glimpse of your laced bra,
you have no right to complain
about wandering hands
or staring eyes and witty remarks.

and baby, don't you recognise a compliment when you feel it
piercing through your skin?
you know, honey,
all I recognise is a hint of aggression
in an attempt to own what was never yours
so maybe instead of teaching our daughters
to hide and cringe and fear,
we should be teaching them
that they're not frail beings, but powerful thunderstorms,
that they are not a vapid object
on the rusty shelf of a convenience store
but walking pieces of art
and "do not touch" signs should be taken seriously,
so maybe instead of teaching our daughters
to conceal
we should be teaching our sons
to respect
because something as careless and immature as
boys will be boys
will never suffice to justify
anything.


Little Tiger Girl

There can only be so much
muffled anger and carefully misplaced blame
because excuses may seem like the only way out
and self-proclaimed retrieved courage
might take you until the next stop
but eventually you'll have to get down
and realise you paid for your fare
with a two-faced coin;
a crumbled ticket was all you got left in the end,
a fading piece of paper,
forever reminding you
that you once held a pulsing heart
between your clumsy fingers
and decided
with lucidity
to let it go.

You never thought about the intensity of its impact
when it inevitably hit the pavement.