No mum, no grandma, no sister, no woman ever prepared you for this. One day you are a kid, the next they drag you to a store and strap around you a hideous beige thing. They say, now you need this to cover your tits, the same tits you showed to the world a few months ago still tanned from the sun, still flat on your chest, no curves there yet, no excuse for the itch that burns your skin, that makes you scratch for days and weeks while autumn proceeds and winter delays and still no word escapes their lips—no, they didn’t prepare you for this. No ceremony or initiation but a mute affirmation to your questioning eyes, mamma, is this it?—the it eludes you and the warm blood trickling down your thighs sends shivers up your spine; where do you go from here and how?
I had it all neat and tucked in my head. What to write, when to post, and the rest of my pending thoughts waiting patiently their turn, but then I read this poem written by in response to a prompt had come up with when she joined forces with . And I should not leave out of this chain reaction the comments between Margaret and .
You see, all the lovely human beings who hang out here have a strange effect on me, they make me write more each day :)
I love this. The poem. The chain reaction. The writing more each day. All of it xx
What a beautiful lament to rituals lost and all those old maps to adulthood cast aside. I love these spoonfuls of wry wisdom. Thanks.