The Times I Have Not Been a Lady

Knee mere inches that were really feet

From the ground,

I rode dizzying laps for

Six-year-old hours

An engine roared in my head,

Growling like the tiger that

Had once come to tea

I was on a motorbike

Hands gripped the hardened rubber ring

Of this big green box

My seventh birthday presents were white knuckles

And a heart daring to escape

Over my shoulder,

My Father's smiling eyes glitter

His feet worked the pedals,

I steered

And our driveway was eaten

Up beneath us

Wrists pinned to my stunted

12-year-old hips,

Held by my Mother's icy grip

This was not an age

For waving to friends

There was darkness in my pits,

A darkness that was scandalous secret

My throat started to tighten

At caught observers

That night I braved the razor

Long lines of red unearth

My clumsiness

Youth

What does it mean to be youthful?
Thigh gaps, bright eyes and long hair
Long eyelashes that curve
Perfectly at the ends
But-don't-you-dare-ask-if-they're-real
Unnaturally natural, dark lips
White teeth
The vision of social perfection
Not youth

Youth is the uncontrollable laughter that turns into a snort
Which, of course, makes you laugh harder

Youth is the genuine smile when someone remembers your name
Even if they did pronounce it wrong

Youth is the fluttering in your chest when you look through your photos
Back when you loved yourself enough to wear a bikini

Youth is not self-conscious
Youth is not apologetic
Youth is not humble
Youth is not dictated by the world