TW: Being cat called at a young age.

At eleven, young and full of dreams,
I wandered through the sunlit beams.
In a crop top with shoulders bare,
I faced the world with innocent flair.

But from the street, a voice did call,
an old man's gaze made my young heart fall.
His words were sharp, and eyes were cold,
an age-old story, a truth too bold.

My mother stood, her gaze was still,
As if to teach, with a quiet chill.
"See what you get for clothes like these,"
her words cut deep like winter's freeze.

No comfort given, just blame and shame,
as if the fault were mine to claim.
Innocence and pain entwined,
a lesson learned, but not in kind.

For in that moment, all I sought
was understanding, not a fault.
But silence roared, and pain did grow,
as I walked on, feeling low.