Sit up, back straight, legs closed,
My aunt tells me.
Where are your manners?
Present yourself properly
for your cousins and family.
I roll my eyes and find
my brother was told to
wear jeans at church. No worries,
boys will be boys.
Grandma tells me to balance books
with heels, honor, emotions,
not to wear crop tops and tees.
At Target Dad tells me
Find a dress
down past your knees,
guys will run their
masturbating hands over your body.
Don’t allow them. I am property.
Boys will be boys.
Dancing around, oh how fun!
Darkness and sweaty bodies surround me.
Can’t wait to be cornered by your tongue.
Licking your lips, you’re preparing your charm.
You try to put hands down my pants,
my teeth holding hostage the chance
of talking between your sentences mostly
edged with your accomplishments, but oh,
boys will be boys.
I travel to the door, past the blasting speakers.
A boy smiles, gestures me forward.
He holds the door open
which is fine, thanks but
don’t expect anything back. I think.
It was a kind gesture, not me
to be rewarded, not a gateway ticket
to the ass you wanted for a snack. But
boys will be boys.
Fear of where what how when
something can happen
follows me daily.
I can’t walk peacefully alone in a nature valley
parkway, K-mart, café, my room.
There’s always a shadow touching me,
I run, slide my hands in my pocket with mace,
scared of the chase. Hands close in on me but,
boys will be boys.
Generation after generation
passed on and on the phrase
dismissing and diminishing its haze.
It’s grown up too long for toleration.
Times need changed, kiss goodbye the silence.
Us girls hold up our picket signs to our families.
Signs that say: no more,
boys will be boys.