Days grow long,
the summers are hot,
and I have a friend with scissors,
so I think,
Why not?
“Men prefer long hair,” they tell me,
just so I know that ‘he’ may be displeased.
I never meant to listen.
I never wanted to listen.
But they filtered through the TV,
glossy at eye level,
stories high at every cinema,
leaking from the pages of books
seeping, slowly, steadily,
seeping into me since birth,
cracking my foundation,
eroding my mother’s encouraging words,
insisting forcingdemanding
that I see me as he may see me
as ‘he’ may see me.
This hypothetical ‘he’
who won’t like me if I am
too smart
too opinionated
too ambitious
too focused
on my own thing
Curled on couches with my brothers,
watching worlds where they’re adventurers,
scientists, Jedi, time travelers, knights,
and I’m
vixen, victim, murdered motive, waiting wife,
and every map I’m handed only leads to him.
To ‘him.’
This hypothetical ‘he’
who won’t like me if I
earn too much money
stand up too tall
wear too much makeup or
wear none at all
So I sleep on the edge of the mattress
to practice
to never fill up space in my bed,
—my mind, my life, my soul—
that I’ll have to give up someday anyway,
for him.
For ‘him.’
This hypothetical ‘he’
who won’t like me if I
am plump in the wrong places
say ‘fuck’ in casual conversation
want to pay the check or
cut my hair
My body forms a dent in pad and springs,
so I turn the mattress to start again.
Turn every conversation away from my education, my career
—my travels, my stories, my wisdom, my heart—
and I’m careful to say “stuff,”
when I want to say “detritus.”
I don’t want ‘him’ to be intimidated.
This hypothetical ‘he’
who cannot feel strong
unless I am weak
who cannot hold me
unless I am small
who cannot share my life
unless I keep it empty for him
For ‘him.’
Because the way to be loved
is to be less.
So I live less.
bend, contort, twist to form
for any ‘him’ who catches my eye or
who seems to like the look of mine,
I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny
and I feel
less.
I constrict,
count calories and lines on a face made grotesque by scrutiny,
create mangled mathematics trying to calculate
how big
is too big
to be wanted.
to be the woman
—girl, child, shadow, ghost—
the fractured female, sweetly unformed, so ‘he’
will love me
I make myself the damsel in someone else’s story,
pander, beg, grovel for attention from ‘him’
becauseI’m no one
if I’m not wanted,
and I weep on the floor of my bedroom,
wretched,
because I feel so much hate
when I want to love.
“Men like a confident woman,” they say,
“stay tuned for our flat-belly secrets and sex tips,
so he won’t stray.”
I never meant to listen.
I never wanted to listen.
I beg myself to please stop listening
feel sudden bursts of rage,
grip my hair, imagine pulling until my skull breaks flesh,
screaming, gnashing, beating against pretty-prison bars
that I designed, crafted, forged and lowered
for him.
For ‘him.’
and it all flows in my bloodstream now,
a glossy-page, silver-screen pathogen,
that jars me out of my own skin
forces me to see me
as ‘he’ may see me.
as ‘he’ may see me
my every moment
as ‘he’ may see me
as ‘he’ may see me
until my reflection in the mirror shatters
into flaws and features,
pros and cons,
and I can’t see myself through the pass/fail marking my body
from head to toe
and I am diseased, tired,
infected,
and my soul
is drowning.
I beg myself to please stop listening.
but I can’t tell which words are theirs anymore
All the voices sound like me.
Like ‘me.’
This contaminated ‘me’
who hates me when I am
too smart
too opinionated
too ambitious
too focused
on my own thing
This contaminated ‘me’
who hates me when I
am plump in the wrong places
say ‘fuck’ in casual conversation
want to pay the check or
cut my hair
This contaminated ‘me’
who hates me.
Then, I look into the clear, round eyes
of my brother’s daughter
and I weep on the floor of her bedroom,
wretched,
to know.
To know.
They’re coming for her.
Standing from her bedroom floor,
with trembling hands, I unmoor,
sift through the voices until I find mine
—thin, reedy, scared and barely used—
I sleep like a giant X alone on my mattress
and become my own destination
for her.
I try to see me
as she will see me
as she will see me
and jump into unknown waters that scare me
so I can show her how
I cherish loud girl’s laughter; a bold, creative voice;
look at perfect gap-toothed smiles,
and hear them now
as they seep into her ears,
spread across her foundation,
erode my brother’s encouraging words
and I weep.
I don’t want her to listen.
I see them give her only sparkles and daisies,
turn her toys princess pink-pink-pink
and insist that somehow monkeys, rockets, math, and lizards
are only for him
For ‘him’
As little-girl legs lengthen and
round cheeks smooth to a woman’s curve,
they tell her to see her,
as ‘he’ will see her.
as ‘he’ will see her
watch her grow,
as ‘he’ will see her
as ‘he’ will see her
until she becomes something that must be
covered,
so ‘he’ won’t be tempted
silent,
so ‘he’ can be heard
obedient,
because ‘boys will be boys’
“A woman should be gentle,” they say,
so I pull on boxing gloves, hit the mats,
and boldly go
wherever the fuck I want.
Bend open pretty-prison bars
to stretch arms, legs
—toes, wings, tongue, mind—
and lope gracelessly across unmarked terrain,
leaving clunky poetry and rusty realness
in my footsteps.
I walk off the edge of the map,
where only heroes dare to tread,
open my own doors,
and let go of ‘him’
for her.
and for me.
This actual, factual me
who wants
more.
I look across the mountaintops
curl my back into the waves
walk wild paths and dive into the deep
alone, if must be to be me.
I burned the maps I’ve been handed,
and will leave no elbow room
in my soul.
“You’re too set in your ways,” they tell me,
just so I know it’s my fault.
Kathryn S. Gardiner 