Eleven.
Me and my best friend
walking down the street.
Catcalled.
Thirteen.
Boobs overnight.
High school boys
pitching pennies at me,
a carnival game I didn’t agree to play.
So I wore my dad’s shirts.
Big.
Boxy.
Tried to fold myself into the fabric,
small enough to vanish.
Thiry-four.
Bakered.
Seventy-two hours.
Security sat with me,
watching,
waiting for a bed.
I asked why.
He said—
Do you know what the tallest building in this town is?
This hospital.
The sitter leaned in,
patted my hand,
you’re too pretty to be here.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Release day.
Here’s your things.
Signed the papers.
Told me I was free.
I took the elevator up.
Not down.
Wondering
if they’d say it again—
Too pretty.
Too young.
Pretty.
Even in the fall