They taught me young, how to balance womanhood on my narrow shoulders,
like a glass vase filled to the brim,
fragile, yet expected to stand sturdy.
While boys ran wild with knees scabbed red,
I was told to sit still, hands folded delicately in my lap,
To braid responsibility into my hair,
To swallow my voice until it became a quiet hum.
Maturity was a heavy perfume,
Pressed upon my skin too soon,
Its scent cloying, filling every room I entered.
“It’s just that girls grow up faster,” they said with a shrug,
as if it were a gift to be given.
But as the years ticked on, the lessons shifted, folding back on themselves.
Suddenly my legs, once proud with downy freedom,
Were shameful landscapes to be stripped bare.
The razor whispered, “Smooth means ready,”
And ready meant to please.
“Smile more, but don’t smile too much,”
They told me, while my lips tasted the salt of restraint.
Speak, but only in soft, polished tones,
lest your words slice through the air like broken glass.
Opinions, like wildflowers,
Were pretty only if picked sparingly.
“Be childlike, not childish,” they cooed,
a cryptic riddle carved into my reflection.
Wear innocence as a veil,
But know when to discard it.
Giggle, but not too loud.
Dream, but not too inconvenient.
I learned to tiptoe through this labyrinth,
Feet aching on paths paved with contradictions.
The world wanted me to bloom, but only in shades they deemed palatable.
To be soft and pliable,
But never weak and frail.
To cradle strength,
But never let it show too much muscle.
The years became layers of fabric,
A dress I could never take off.
The hem brushed against my ankles,
Each thread a strand of expectations.
Be a woman but not too much of one.
Be a girl, but never too girlish.
And now, I stand on a tightrope, the wind carrying the scent of roses and iron,
The taste of honey laced with vinegar.
I wonder if I’ll ever step off.
If I’ll let my legs grow wild again,
let my laugh shake the stars,
let my words fall where they please.
Perhaps one day,
I’ll gather every rule they ever taught me,
every whispered “should” and “shouldn’t”,
and toss them into the fire,
watch the smoke rise,
curling toward a sky that never needed permission to be free.
Hayden Vincent (she/her) is a young writer from Florida. She attends Douglas Anderson School of the Arts as a freshman in Creative Writing. You can find her on Instagram, @lokivincent, as well as TikTok, @loki_vincent.
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