Page 39 - SOUTHERN VOICES_2020

At seventeen,
We understand
That we can be seen
But not noticed,
Unnoticed, but objectified,
Heard,
But not listened to.
We
Understand
When our angry teeth gnash
Ferocious, furious hands ball into white-knuckled fists, They see
Pearly whites in a dimpled smile on blushing cheeks, Bubblegum painted lips,
Pretty magenta-painted nails, curling against soft palms, The gentle hands of their mothers.
They see pink, delicate;
We are red, destructive, devastated.
We are bloodthirsty, but They want something else. Have They seen the feet of a ballerina?
Have They seen Our stingers?
They think We make honey.
We make venom.
They think We are rosebuds, but We are thorns.
When our brains beg to be acknowledged, valued, at least validated,
Crying out complexities and intellect, opinions and politics,
They see two lumps of fat—appetizing until a newborn must be breastfed.
When We see short skirts, push-up bras, and lip-gloss, They see an invitation.
We are not welcoming Them. We are not asking for It. We are not here to bear Their children.
We are not fragile, and neither are our egos.
We are not a generation of housewives and obedient mothers—we are businesswomen,
Sharp, smart, savvy.
We do not have moneymakers—we are moneymakers. The only thing I will shake for Them is the finger in
between my index and my ring.
They classify us as virgins and prudes or sluts and
whores.
We are not virgins or prudes or sluts or whores. We are
young women.
They are careless, hungry fathers and sons.
We should not be fearful and They should not be fearless.
They do not bring security or comfort. They bring a wave of uneasiness—clutched purses,
pepper-spray, whistles in case It happens. Never wear heels you can’t run in and always watch your drink.
Yes, They have angered Us. Must We really explain to Them why?
Wanderlust
Honorable Mention—Drawing
Ada Fulgham
Seventeen
Lily Langstaff
Ink
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