They Call It Womanhood

I shed my skin of skins.

I dropped ten pounds.

All the weight came from my shoulders.

It sank to my chest and sagged to my hips.

They called it womanhood.

No sister to being a girl.

No cousin to childhood.

No friend to white shorts or self-esteem.

But, womanhood.

A new stranger to make my acquaintance with.

Someone to teach me how to walk in high heels.

And how to hold my head up high.

And how to make myself small.

Not take men’s space.

To bite my tongue until it bleeds.

Wipe my mouth off with a smile.

And always,

always say please and thank you.