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growing up black girl

 

With whisky stained shirt and skunk breath,
he looks at me like I am a woman.
I am nothing but fourteen, thighs and hips
stretch jeans and ripped inseams
with a pruned waistband.
I stand in a gas station, sour
candies and canned tea in hand.
He offers to pay, but I know he wants more,
offers dick alongside dollar bills
hopes I won’t notice or care.
I do. I shrink into myself, stammer
a rejection, pay for my items, give him more
time to stare as I fumble for coins, and leave the change.
My mother asks why I took so long.
I tell her about the man with coke bottle eyes.
That’s what you get for being so grown.

Ashley Elizabeth is a 20-something poet from Baltimore who draws inspiration from her city, her people, her space, and her body. Ashley is an advocate of women’s rights, accessibility of the arts, and education. She has been featured in the online journals Rose Water, Passages North, Rat's Ass Review, and Communicator's League.

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