why can't i live free?

she says, her voice not once wavering,

why can't i sit how i want,

wear what i want,

paint my face how i want?

why won't my mother let me

draw over my hands,

cut my own hair,

make my own clothes?

why won't she let me

live without shame

of the hair on my face,

my armpits,

my legs,

as if a woman isn't allowed to grow hair,

and that a woman isn't feminine if she does?

why can't i be who i want to?

she whispers, she yells,

her voice loud and ferocious

and quiet and resigned

all at once.

i am so sorry for the others,

she says,

the girls who live in a cage

imprisoned by the earlier generation of girls

who listened to their mothers

because they thought they had to

and they never stopped.