The Catcall No. 1

I was hot and sweating in my new skin,

Skin that was fitting me a little too tightly by the August of 2017.

In my black spaghetti straps I was trying something new,

Standing in the shade of summer’s trees,

Looking down,

And wondering if my new body could almost be pretty.

A man emerged,

A mocking, whining, grunting “Hey Baby”,

Spilling from his cigarette-stained mouth,

Chased by groaning noises I didn’t quite know the meaning of.

This new kind of fear stunned me,

White hot and thorough,

Burning my too young body

And forcing my small hands into small fists.

My bones knew what had happened as he passed,

Warning my body with a memory that wasn’t mine,

I knew in my stomach what he wanted from me,

and I hated my body for his eyes on it.

I sat through the week in silence before I whispered my shame to another.

“Well, that’s what spaghetti straps get you” her only reply.

I thought she was probably right.

I hate that I was so young,

So young when I learnt that even my body was against me,

So young that it hadn’t even finished growing,

So young when I learnt this new type of fear.

Years later I look back.

I remember my new body from my home in a slightly newer one.

I cry angry tears for my too young self and decide to strike a match within me. 

In my mind I burn the spaghetti straps,

And the trees I stood beneath,

My shame and his dirty adult mouth.

I set it all on fire and force it out, burning my flesh alive to free it.