Who will I be when I grow up?

See me, the girl with no tutu,

all out of sync with the others

No fairy-princesses for me

I am She-Ra, princess of power,

body curled into dark corners,

never out of reach of big hands searching for bare legs

Powerless

Girls lip-sync pop music,

mascara eyed stars

in the school toilets

I rake sweat off my face,

do not know how to put lipstick on

Pray the lock on the bathroom door will hold tonight,

against the twist of my father’s hand

A mother, wife,

not like my mother

That’s who I will be

Four children: two boys, two girls

Or three, two,

Or just one, even just one

My peers want careers

I want children

Only one of us never wants sex

Archaeologist, zoologist, medical research

I dissect rats with my eyes

The others pass me, on their way to somewhere science

I touch the bump where the textbook met my head

because I didn’t get off a chair fast enough

In drama class I hold a knife, stolen from the kitchen

I play a suicidal student, my choice,

slumped against a wall, cheap blue carpet scratching my legs

Normally at the bottom of the class,

I win the award

No one asks if it was an act

“Everyone else knows what they want to do”

The career counsellor is impatient

“Be a teacher, you write well”

I write a story about a little match-girl

The lit houses, magnificent feasts

unimaginable futures, out of reach

At home, no light as I fall asleep at the table,

not allowed to leave,

deafened by shouting,

shaking with adrenaline,

dreaming of a hug

Like a stream we diverge, my peers and I

They live

I survive, choked between sheets

No future for you, my father says

And says and says

Until my head is blank, no dreams

Until I no longer know who I am,

nor what I am supposed to be doing

“You’re wasting your life”

She is impatient, too busy for this conversation I did not ask for

A well-published author,

important, distracted

“I can’t be bothered with you,” she says

My father’s voice blends with hers,

twisted electric wires

“Useless”

I bake, walk it down the road

It may or may not be eaten,

but the heart-thoughts are there

swirled into lemon-sweet icing

I scuff along,

reminding myself how hot to make the coffee

for the elderly lady who likes my sweets

and an ear eager to listen

to the same story, again and again

because everyone deserves to have their story heard

I was going to be ordinary-extraordinary me, maybe

Never thought I’d be a girl who sleeps with a knife under her pillow

Never thought I would not know who or how to be

Never thought my dream would be for a safe hug

Who do I want to be when I grow up?

I want to be kind and loving,

godly, generous and gentle,

useful and wise

I do not want to be who I was raised to be

Originally written July, 2019