Too Far

A flat chested, innocent, young girl. Bows wrapped in my hair, flowers on my shoes. Going out I would skip the streets. Smiling at strangers and humming happy tunes.  
  
"Not too far!" mother would yell. She'd run to grab my hand, keep me close to her. I just wanted to play. I didn't understand the concern.    
  
As years passed, I bloomed    
-- men's stares grew louder,    
my mom's grip grew tighter, suddenly, I didn't want to play.    
I didn't want to explore, I didn't want to catch up with my brothers.    
I wanted to shrink behind my hair and never come out.    
The random faces I was once smiling at, became hungry faces. Hunters ready to attack, smug smiles and icy eyes piercing an uneasy sensation into my throat. Averting my eyes, my legs became fragile and I felt that of a skeleton hanging on display. Every bone exposed.    
  
I wasn't afraid of men. I was afraid of standing up for myself.    
  
At home Dad taught me how to kick. "Straight for the groin", he'd say.    
Mom taught me how to say no. No to drugs, no to alcohol, no to boys.. I listened and learned and went on thinking such occasions would never arise.    
  
Like most teenagers I was hungry for love. I had met a nice boy who seemed to be a dream. Dashing smile, soft lips.. I felt a magical high just from being around him.      
  
I finally had my first kiss. Spinning mind, butterflies..    
  
A first kiss led to a first boyfriend. My first boyfriend took me on my first date. Soon we said our first "I Love You".    
  
Dark room, fuzzy blanket, not paying attention to the movie as my lips smiled into his. So fresh, so new.. Our tongues may have danced as hormones spread through the air like static. His hand caressing my face moved down beneath the layers of fabric and soon I was feeling more butterflies - but not the good kind.    
  
"No". That's all I had to say. Our lips kept moving but my mind froze. I panicked. I could feel the air leave my lungs and not return. I envisioned the hungry faces of men and my younger self following them home. I felt uneasy as I was letting my own boyfriend do the same. I moved his hand away, I slowed the kisses and tried to return to the film. Still they found ways to snake back beneath the materials. Hands. Motion. Shame.
  
I screamed no, and told him to get off.    
  
Only my lips didn't move, and no sound came out, and he got further and further.    
  
This wasn't rape.    
  
So what was it?    
  
It was me. A young, innocent girl. Flowers on my shoes, and bows in my hair. Not listening to mother when she said to not go too far.