I run my thumb over the stretch marks on the inside of my thighs. Smooth grooves, not deep, not long, Reminiscent of the weight gained That made my *** expand and boys notice me, Not because they liked me But because they saw this growth. These lines tell a short story About my transition into adulthood. My transition into catcalling and Being called bubble **** and Being told I must be able to dance because of my ***. Small creases, barely noticeable But significant to my life My being Our pain. I am not proud of these marks That become visible every time I sit Criss-crossed and quickly realize they’re there again and move my legs together. No, I am not proud of these marks.