I was small and thin but cheeks were flushed, and cherub like still. My blonde hair in loose curls, always a mess but still framed my little face so well. My eyes blue, always sparkling. Every picture of me you can see my excitement in the attention, soaking up the memory of being seen and captured in time. I would show off a new funny face or grin, happy to just be there.
I watched my mother dress for church every Sunday, and comb her hair up into some kind of bun to keep it out of her face. Her hair was brown, not like mine. But soft, and just as beautiful. Her long sleeved blouse always pressed without a wrinkle and her long, flowing skirt covered every bit of her legs. I was in awe of her. So feminine, so radiant. Her skin was always glowing and for some reason my childhood brain associated that with God. She must be such a godly woman.

I remember the first time I was told about what having my body meant for the men in our church. What it meant for me.
That women must soften ourselves and cover, and the evils that were prophesied as a consequence for not doing so - would haunt me until they came true.
Men would fail at my feet.
Their walk with God would be disturbed.
I would be punished for indulging impurity,
Even if by accident.
I was a walking sin, constantly in battle with whatever demon was trying to push it out beneath my clothes and from under my tongue.
I was afraid all the time.

I remember the first time my youth pastors wife told me that I needed to be more careful. She said, your clothes are getting too tight, your sleeves are too short, your knees always show when you sit down. "Remember that we need to be careful, you don't want to be seen as that girl."
I was scared they already saw me as that girl.
That I had already messed up.

They smell it on us, you know.
I could tell by the way they'd look at me,
Or the way they'd put their hands on the back of my neck to pray for me.
When Brother would give me some change for being
"Such a good girl during service tonight"
And he would place it in my hands,
Closing my fingers over it and squeezing twice.
I felt his hot breath in my face and could see the words forming in his mouth begging to push past his teeth.
He saw me for what I was.

That change would go in Sundays offering, and everytime I'd get dressed I'd be a bit more careful than last time.

When I reached 15 I could feel that raging monster inside of me, constantly telling me to lean into whatever power I had.
I'd linger near the men a bit longer
I'd smile a bit softer and look them in the eyes as they spoke.
I'd puff up my lips ever so slightly and wonder if they'd notice and think about how they'd feel.

The more I leaned into those thoughts, the harder I tried to starve that woman out of me.
That Jezebel.
If they no longer saw me as full, maybe I could disappear any bit of woman I had grown into and then never again would I tempt the demon in them again. They'd be safe.
I got as small as I could.
I prayed as hard as I could.
I felt like I was doomed, praying to a God who never spoke back and never reassured me of what I was doing.
I felt alone.

I spent 16 years in the upside down with those sermons and the offering baskets and the lessons and the long looks, the bodies brushing against me and firm hands going out of there way to join me in prayer. All in the name of God and the hope that I'd never fall into what I was told I was.

Now I eat, and I sing,
I don't pray but I speak all the time, outloud.
All it takes is a daily battle with God's demons,
Ignoring them insisting I am but a body and a distraction.
That its my fault the moment he saw me.