poem for the boy who called me a slut

It’s not really any of your business how many bodies

I’ve waded through knee-deep like water since I grew old

enough to know what sex was, or how many condoms

I’ve bought in the middle of the night at Costco

with shades on so the clerk wouldn’t recognize me.

When I turned eleven, my mother unwrapped a box

of maxi pads like a gift and taught me that every time

a girl bleeds, it’s just her body’s way

of leaking its beauty from the inside out.

A girl is not a piece of meat;

a girl is more like a piece of ripe fruit.

She might be sour or she might be sweet

but what she wants to do with you

is her choice and you can’t unpeel her

without her permission. I wish I could leave

a box of rotten pears on your doorstep for a May Day

basket just to teach you this lesson,

or pull open your jeans just to see who would be

the “slut” then. You’d want it, I bet.

With your fingers in my hair, you’d want it.

Last time I checked, how much sex a girl has

doesn’t justify a label slapped on her

like a soup can. And have you ever been on a bus

where men whistle at you or make catcalls

and try to feel you up as you walk to your seat?

You either have or I’m the Queen of England.

The girls at my day camp in eleventh grade

had bright pink hair and wore shorts as tiny

as Barbie doll clothing, and enjoyed sex as much

as the next person.

Guess what you call a woman who enjoys sex?

Her name.