The summer before I turned thirteen, I spent copious amounts of time perched on the edge of a ***** wooden chair in the corner of my friend's kitchen. Sometimes we'd sit together watching her mother make us dinner, the way her hands moved gracefully chopping up onions, and with a flick of the wrist, tossing them into the cast iron pan.

Other times we'd sit with her sisters and fill the table with large stacks of books, reading our favorite lines out loud to each other. Laughter bubbling up to our ears, a quiet contentment settling over the room.

This time was different. It was just us girls, the oldest of us was playing with my hair as I leaned back against the thick wooden frame of my chair, humming quietly to myself. The ******* the other side of me slid open her phone, them immediately turned to me. When I looked at her, she squirmed in her seat as though she had committed a crime and the kitchen had somehow transformed into an interrogation room.

Finally, she broke the silence, saying, "So, uh, I told my friend, the boy you met the other night, about your whole...thing." Instantly, I knew that this "thing" she was talking about was my crush on the girl down the street. She was still uncomfortable with the subject so I gave her points for trying and swallowed my pride. I asked his response and she glanced back to her phone while I waited for a cry of disgust that never came.

Instead I got a reaction I never knew I should fear. Her phone screen displayed a simple text message with only two words. "That's hot."

As if I should care. As if even though I didn't want men, they were still allowed to want me. Still allowed to think that they owned me.

The way men think that my life is a game and at the end of the day what I really want is a big strong man to take care of me.

All women fear ****** assault, but there's a special kind of torture that seemed made only for me. Corrective **** is what they call it when a man thinks that the best cure for a lesbian is to get a taste of a man.

As if men cannot fathom the idea that women were not made to please them. As if they can't comprehend the idea that there are women who don't want to have *** with them.

The way straight men complain about how uncomfortable gay men make them feel, as if men are allowed to say no and women are not.

And at nearly thirteen years old, I didn't know any of this and I bore his words as though they were a compliment, because even if I didn't want him I'd been raised to think that pleasing men was to be my only goal in life.

I told myself I shouldn't be angry. I begged my skin to stop crawling, my insides to stop revolting against me. What was wrong with me? Why did a compliment feel like an assault?

But a part of me recognized, even at twelve, that those words were not a compliment, but rather a threat. This boy knew I didn't want him, couldn't want him, but that didn't seem to matter to him, because he wanted me. I have been taught that men always get what they want, so why shouldn't he get to have me?

With two words, I felt like I'd been sold into slavery. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out, silenced by the waves of shame crashing over my mind.

I was a girl, nearly thirteen, sitting in her friend's kitchen, and realizing that I'd never be free.

I. When watching TV with my grandmother, we stumble upon a film about two beautiful girls who fall in love. When they kiss, she turns away from the screen. Every time.

II. I'm getting reading for school in the morning, and turn on an episode of my favorite show. When two of the boys kiss, I glance away out of habit, and my mother whispers, "It's just so strange."

III. I'm making lunch in the kitchen when my grandmother remarks, "I don't think anyone can know they're gay until they try being straight." Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore.

IV. One of the boys I grew up with keeps telling me that I'll find the right man, no matter how many times I correct him.

V. When my friend finds out, she says it's okay. But she refuses to hug me.

VI. I'm out to dinner with my cousins when  one of them says, "I have a friend who's a lesbian. It's so hot." I excuse myself from the table and spend the rest of the evening sitting in a parking lot.

VII. The boys at school say "***" every other word.

VIII. The girl in the locker room refuses to change next to me.

IX. My grandmother finds a love poem in my room. I tell her it's a part of a school project.

X. In class we talk about gender roles, and a boy gets up and says, "You have to teach your kid to be manly or he'll end up being gay."

XI. Someone says the word "****" and I feel like crying.

XII. The youth pastor at my church tells me that I can be cured.

XIII. Everyone tells me I'm wrong.

XIV. I tell myself I am wrong. Every single day, it repeats in my head like a sacred chant. I tell myself I don't deserve to live. Until the day that I don't.

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I. I watch every movie I can find without looking away.

II. I smile every time they kiss.

III. I develop a stronger stomach.

IV. I correct him more forcefully.

V. Her sister hugs me twice as hard.

VI. I slap my cousin across the face.

VII. I decide to see it as a term of endearment.

VIII. I stop taking gym.

IX. My grandmother finds a love poem in the room. I tell her to calm down.

X. The girl beside me tells him to shut his mouth.

XI. Someone says the word "****" and I feel like laughing.

XII. I pray for her.

XIII. Everyone tells me I'm wrong.

XIV. I tell myself I am wrong.

XVI. Until the day that I don't.

I. When I was 5, I thought recess was probably the best thing ever invented. Until the first autumn rainfall, when the sky opened up and unleashed it's sorrow unto the earth. The children were kept inside that day. As the storm thundered on around us, we ran to play on the other side of the classroom. The boys charged to the shelf with legos and blocks, while the girls lined up at the miniature kitchen. I followed them to the tiny toy oven, even though, secretly, I thought those lincoln logs looked really fun.

II. When I was 6, I thought my first grade teacher was the sweetest woman to ever have lived. Then, one day she lined us to to go outside, calling out, "Boys on one side, girls on the other" reminding of us of a divide between genders that we did not understand. Marking off differences on a checklist that none of us had read yet.

III. When I was 7, like most little girls I daydreamed of the perfect wedding. The part I played over and over in my head was my brother walking me down the aisle, "giving me away". Because even in the second grade, some part of me knew that I belonged to the men in my life.

IV. When I was 8, I learned that the praise I'd receive from the boys I called my brothers would always be conditional. No matter what award I received, how fast I ran, how tough I fought, how smart I was, I'd always be "pretty good for a girl". And that is never a compliment.

V. When I was 9, the YMCA told me I had to stop playing the sport I'd loved for 5 years because I was a girl. I took my first feminist stand by quitting, because I don't care what they say, softball and baseball are not the same thing.

VI. When I was 10, my brother informed me that the day I brought home a boyfriend was the day he bought a gun. Because that's how you protect your property.

VII. When I was 11, a boy ran up to me on the playground and told me I was cute. For a moment, I felt confident, a feeling that was foreign to me. Until the boy and his friend started laughing uncontrollably, as if they couldn't believe that I'd ever think that was true. I cried a lot that day because I hadn't yet realized that my self worth wasn't directly proportional to how many boys found me attractive.

VIII. When I was 12, my aunt gave me my first make up kit for my birthday. When my grandmother tried to force me to wear it, I refused, yelling, "It's my face!" She proceeded to tell me that I'd never get a boyfriend with that attitude. After all, who was I to want to be in control of my own body?

IX. When I was 13, I thought gym was a subject invented by sadistic hell fiends created just to torture teenage girls. It was the hottest day of the year, and I'd just ran a mile, so I opted not to change out of my tank top before continuing on to my next class. A teacher cornered me at my locker, advising me to put on a jacket before I became a distraction to the boys.

X. When I was 14, I confessed to my mother the wanderlust inside of me. Exclaiming about travelling to new places, having new experiences. That's when she looked me dead in the eye and told me to always take someone with me. Preferably, a man. I couldn't bring myself to be angry. We both knew what happened to women alone on the streets, and I felt bad for the way I made her eyes shine with worry each time I left the house without her.

XI. I am 15, and I walk with my fists clenched and my head down. I am always conscious of what clothes I wear and whether or not they could attract "the wrong kind of attention". I attempt to shield myself from the world, but I can feel my barriers cracking with each terrifying statistic, each late night news story, each girl that was never given justice. The world is a war zone, and every woman must put her armor on before walking outside. My life has been one battle after the next. I am a 15 year old war veteran, and have the scars to prove it. I've learned from my experiences and am left with just one question:

At what age does the war end?

"Gabrielle" was a name falling from my grandmother's lips,
as I was rushed to the NICU, the doctors asked my name,
and my grandmother uttered a word that was more like a promise.

Gabrielle is the female form of Gabriel, the angel that brought the news of the birth of Jesus to townspeople, like how my grandmother brought the news of my birth to the hospital waiting room, where my ten year old brother was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man, and my other grandma threw a fit about my new moniker.

The name Gabrielle means "gift from god" and my life itself was a gift as no one knew how long I'd be around to live it, the odds of a tiny baby hooked up to wires and tubes. God gave me the gift of life, as I was born without breathe, my lungs not ready for this world, he gave me a second chance, and I opened up my mouth and cried.

Gabrielle meant a name, and a name meant a life, a family, a place in the world.

Growing up I loathed my name, hopping between nicknames, wishing I had been given anything else for a title, but now I know I would not trade it for the world.

To reject my name is to erase the prayer that fell from my grandmother's lips the moment I was born.

Marissa Ann was a firecracker of a little girl.
For her, there was no fence too tall to climb, no bully too mean to face, no street too busy to cross.
She was all tangled hair and toothy grins.
And she'd yank the book right out of my hands and say, "Gabrielle, we have more important things to do than read."

In the jungle of our lives, Marissa was a lioness, queen of the pride.
I was a mouse not indigenous to these parts of the second grade.
The world was a terrifying place, and I had no problem cowering in the corner, knee-deep in a pile of Nancy Drew.
I tried to stay huddled behind my words, drowning in the ink, attempting to let the pages be my armor.
Marissa would not let me.
When I allowed bookshelves to be my shields, she came guns blazing, and kicked them all down, then stood me back up on my feet.
She'd grab my hand and pull me head first toward adventure.

Marissa was tough, and everyone knew it.
There was not a soul alive brave enough to pick on Marissa Ann.
But me? I was an easy target.
The other girls said I was "weird" with my enormous wire frames resting atop full cheeks, and my frayed jeans, a glowing reminder of my mother's lack of wealth.
I heard the whispers on the playground about the chubby girl who read, (can you believe it?), chapter books.

Brianna was a demon of a child.
She'd bat her pretty little eyelashes and everyone would melt.
She had the entire second grade class wrapped around her tiny little finger.
She'd corner me on the soccer field and do everything she could to remind me that I was different.
But one day at recess, she was nowhere to be found, until I made my way through winding halls, back to the warmth of our classroom.

There sat Marissa with a devilish glint in her eye, waving me over to sit in the desk beside her.
Behind us, a sniffling Brianna, looking forlornly at the teardrop stains on her pink lace skirt, her mouth pulled tight into a perfect straight line.
I looked back at Marissa with a curious glance, then intertwined her hand with my own.
The sound of stifled sobs behind us and the warmth of her skin on mine sealing an unspoken vow between two girls with puzzle piece fingertips that only fit each other.

you were like a drug,
when you were around me i was filled to the brim with ecstasy
and when you weren't all i could think about was how to get another hit, another fix, another glance into your soul
forever desperate to hear the sound of your voice, or to catch a glimpse of your alabaster skin
i was like a ******, filled with longing for the way you said my name, your lips curving around each and every syllable, the intimacy of my name on someone's else's lips
you kept our hands firmly intertwined, and while i know that this was just your way of being friendly i couldn't help but to tuck this information away as evidence of your love,
the way your eyes flitted down to my unbuttoned shirt, proof of your want

as our legs wrapped around each other like ivy tangling on the side of a fence, you remained perfectly composed, unaffected
while i slowly fell apart, a fool in my longing,
you leaned forward to whisper simple truths in my ear, as we traded admissions that barely counted as secrets, stories and guilty pleasures were our currency and our conversations a marketplace
we were rich in our words, overflowing piles of confessions and declarations
drunk with the moment, and the sound of saxophones somewhere in the distance

i woke in the morning, ashamed and afraid, to face your excellence in the light of day, but it seemed you were willing to turn the tables
as i sat in front of you on those autumn red chairs, and i heard the uncertainty in your voice as you whispered to the girl beside you that you remembered nothing of the night before
instead of feeling that familiar wave of relief, what i felt was all the air leaving my lungs, as if someone had just kicked me in the stomach,

the feeling of having my soul ripped out, only to be released into the wild, like an animal no one wanted to tame

your thigh, pressed tight against mine
the shared heat of our bodies travelling up to the blush on my cheeks as you recited poetry,
your voice, nothing more than a whisper,
i could feel each syllable of beauty on the crook of my neck as you inhaled and exhaled each word,
the letters tangled together in my brain, paying no attention to what you were saying, but how you said it,
the way the words consumed you, the way you spoke as if you didn't say these words right now they might somehow cease to exist

and this poetry you quoted in my ear must have been murmured in a hundred different ways, between a thousand different lovers, but it seemed like it was meant only for me
your voice the soundtrack of my mind, as i closed my eyes and soared to different galaxies, fantasy images of you and i, exploring the night sky and filling it with laughter and passionate kisses
to me you were the only person alive
the hitch in your breath bringing me crashing down to the reality of the school building, and the many people that filled its halls

you finished the poem, a little smile dancing across your face
and you told me how much you loved this poet, and as i watched your eyes shining with admiration, i prayed to whatever god would listen that someday you may learn to love me just as much