girlhood

i hate the way my skin feels against my clothes 

feminine fabric and secret oaths 

like wearing lacy thongs

pink paranoia that only i know.

the male gaze has no eyelids

it never blinks or sleeps 

it knows my skin and loves to creep.

undressing in the bathroom mirror 

feels like a performance

to all the voices i hold dear

words that kiss away my questions  

and make me feel real

my worth intertwined with sex appeal.

oh to cut the cameras

and to see myself as more 

anything but to be trapped in this girlhood chore.