she’s always been the quiet type — the girl who’s said “not much to see here.” she covered up her body because of society’s shame towards a woman like her. the curve of her waist isn’t welcome in pictures. that shirt is too baggy & makes her look fat, makes her feel less than pretty, but a tight shirt clings to all the spots she cannot show to anybody for fear of the time when someone pushes to the what’s next. but she has also grown honest with herself & knows that a what’s next situation doesn’t depend on what she wears or who she’s with. what’s next is always going to be a what’s next.
this what’s next hangs heavy around her neck like two solid gold medals, swinging with her gait, reminding her that a fast walk makes her hips swing but a slow pace could let a man catch up with her. it’s her charge of womanhood — after all, doesn’t everyone have a story like hers? everywhere she turns, she can see it, like a native language women didn’t know they knew how to speak until after the what’s next. it feels like all of us women pick up our medals, compare & contrast, showing them meekly to a few or shouting bravely for the world to hear. & we can’t put them down. there’s no re-gifting this medal of womanhood, or leaving it in a box somewhere in our attics to gather dust & eventually fade from our memories.
no, this unwanted gift is a horror story plot etched in the the back of our eyelids, never fading & always like new. no dust can gather on a thing you examine every crevice of — not when you’re picking it apart, looking for answers you will never find. & she does all of this deep within herself, folding inward so no one can see the pain that she carries. she hides the tears with laughter, so that if one escapes down her cheek she can exclaim that she laughed so hard she cried. no one could ever question a girl who wears a smile on her lips.