For the Sonorous

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.