This is a letter to the first boy that made me feel small.
He happens to be the first boy to tell me that being small was better.
My voice should be quiet, my emotions subdued,
the gap between my thighs larger than my legs themselves.
It is okay; I forgive you.
Gunpowder is packed tightly into cardboard to become fireworks,
all of its molecules taking up as little space as possible,
and I am now a firecracker of a woman.
Let me be clear:
I am intelligent, articulated, educated, loud.
My tummy is full and round, my thighs clap together,
like rounds of applause for every step I take,
for making it this far.
You will have a daughter one day,
and I hope she surprises you
when she bursts from her mother,
I hope she grows up and challenges every conservative view you’ve ever held.
I hope that you never dare tell her to stay small,
but if you do,
I hope she screams right back at you
that she deserves to take up space.
And I know that you were just the first in a long line of men
to tell me no,
but you’re the first one I said no right back to.
And I am stronger and bigger and bolder, because of it.
I forgive you,
but you can still fuck yourself.