Ten years old,

Writing in my diary,

With poor handwriting

And misspelled words,

Planning out my wedding

To a boy I’d never spoken to

Just because

He went to my church.

Eleven years old,

Going to school,

Seeing all the girls

And how pretty they are,

Feeling not enough.

Not popular or cool,

Not pretty or cute,

Just there, existing.

Twelve years old,

Feeling forgotten.

Always second best

To my best friend.

Always third-wheeling,

Because she was beautiful,

And I ain’t never seen

Two pretty best friends.

Thirteen years old,

Crying in my room

Late at night

Because I wasn’t enough.

Working out on the floor,

Trying to get a smaller waist

So that I could look like

The girls on TV.

Fourteen years old,

Reading rape statistics,

Realizing the danger

Of just being a woman.

Hearing people talk,

Saying that women

Were less capable,

And weaker, and worthless.

Fifteen years old,

Listening to Taylor Swift

And all the people hating her,

Wondering why they did.

Trying to make a difference,

Stand up for what’s right,

But always hearing a voice

Saying I’m too weak.

Sixteen years old,

Slowing giving up

Because the world

Is too deeply fucked

And I’m just me.

Just a woman.

But I can never stop fighting

For the girls after me.