"It’s not really any of your business how many bodies
I’ve waded through knee-deep like water since I grew old
enough to know what sex was, or how many condoms
I’ve bought in the middle of the night at Costco
with shades on so the clerk wouldn’t recognize me.
When I turned eleven, my mother unwrapped a box
of maxi pads like a gift and taught me that every time
a girl bleeds, it’s just her body’s way
of leaking its beauty from the inside out.
A girl is not a piece of meat;
a girl is more like a piece of ripe fruit.
She might be sour or she might be sweet
but what she wants to do with you
is her choice and you can’t unpeel her
without her permission. I wish I could leave
a box of rotten pears on your doorstep for a May Day
basket just to teach you this lesson,
or pull open your jeans just to see who would be
the “slut” then. You’d want it, I bet.
With your fingers in my hair, you’d want it.
Last time I checked, how much sex a girl has
doesn’t justify a label slapped on her
like a soup can. And have you ever been on a bus
where men whistle at you or make catcalls
and try to feel you up as you walk to your seat?
You either have or I’m the Queen of England.
The girls at my day camp in eleventh grade
had bright pink hair and wore shorts as tiny
as Barbie doll clothing, and enjoyed sex as much
as the next person.
Guess what you call a woman who enjoys sex?
"I will spend more time with myself in this lifetime than anyone else. Let me learn to be the kind of person I would like to have as a friend."