By Ada Bouthet
I spent my girlhood wrapped in jeans,
in dusty rooms of poor-ish means,
and staring down, with all my might,
the kitchen's air, the orange light,
and here the hens who shared my years
would curl their hair and pierce their ears
and curse their growing, deadweight breasts
and plan their weddings, build their nests,
and press their mouths to mouths so sweet,
force boy-ish boys to soft-capped knees,
but tied to earth by poet's pens
I'd never live the lives of hens.
So now I'm old like denim worn,
like blooming rose, like photo torn,
my chin upturned by bloating soul,
forgotten breasts, and lost control,
and here's the salty beard of man
with long, long legs and massive hands
and curling hair and darkened eyes
of thoughtless looks - the killing kind.
I deemed myself a big, strong girl
for lack of love and lack of twirl,
but here's the salty beard of man
with long, long legs and massive hands.
I'd give these jeans a thousand rips
in hopes to kiss his bitter lips.
Ada Bouthet is a senior at Hopkins Academy in Hadley. She’s been a member of Woven Word for five years, and has enjoyed every single one. She values it’s openness to poetry, prose, and experiences of all kinds. She spends her free time writing in her school notebooks, advocating for social justice, and watching romcoms.
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