Eleven

I walk down the

hall and hide

myself from the watchful eyes of my peers.

I don't know what

I've done to provoke

these glances that scratch

at my covered limbs.

I hate this feeling.

I can't even walk down the corridor

without their gaze

ripping me to shreds, and I can't

remember when

my body became a piece to be

examined. The

Objectification.

But I do remember. The first time when I

showed too much skin

and was called a slut.

I was eleven.

Written Spring 2016

Art Credit: Helene Graham

Published in MHS’ Calliope Spring Edition 2016