Because when we were 12, we couldn't walk down our own sidewalk without having men whistle and shout, staring at us so hungrily, like we were some lost dog they thought they could capture and have for themselves.
Because when we were 13 only the girls had to watch what they wore, because shoulder blades and knees were to distracting for the boys at school, because there learning was more important than girls seeing themselves as a human rather than a distraction.The only learning girls were being taught was tips and tricks, because if our skirts were to short or our stomach was showing “we were wanting it”.
Bet being taught all the tips and tricks we learned didn't work because when we were 14 we were grabbed and felt up by boys in the streets and boys at the movies, but it was all okay because that meant we had **** bodies and and that we were hot. But there's nothing **** or hot about say “there was this man who”...
We were 15 when we screamed and sobbed for help because the man who stared at us in the streets were now in our sheets...When we cried “No don't touch me there” and “Please Stop” those were all whispers to carry on for you and that no meant yes in your head. Nothing about my tear stained face and paralyzed body meant i wanted to be touched.
But after everything that happened people tried to us that we should be lucky and get used to it. But how can you get used to being some human object men can abuse use and treat as they please.
How did we go from boys calling us mean and pulling our piggy tails to having a trail of tears stream down my face every night? Because i cant close my puffy and abused eyes without seeing the men who found there way into my dreams. I guess i went from playing with toys to becoming one.

If we bruised where we ached we'd all see a different kind of beautiful. With corrupted skin of a mapped out past, maybe wed have a better understanding. We have the marks of blue solar systems across our heavy heads, circles over each knot in our spines, bruises in the shape of cuts from being stabbed in the back.there'd be deep navy in the outstretched tips of our fingers from yearning. From reaching from holding on and letting go color blooming on the soles of our feet from walking and walking and running with inconsistencies well have battle marks across our chests dark purples splattered on the left of our racing hearts necks hold dark fingerprints from the ache of being choked by soft things that shouldn't hurt but if we bruised where we ached we wouldn't  be able to hid and maybe just maybe and only then you'll realize the lie in im fine.