me or my body by Michelina Smith

i was in kindergarten
when I discovered that
my body
was an object.

during story time
a boy
put his hand up my skirt.
my teacher said he was
just a silly boy.
boys do silly things.

i was only 6 years old
when my mom taught me
how to defend myself.
against men.
against silly boys.

she took a pillow off the couch
and told me to punch it.
if a boy ever
ever
touched
me like that again.
i was to deliver a blow
to his nuts.

i was 18
the first time i was catcalled.
i was walking back from
the grocery store.
it was raining.
it was nighttime.

an older man
was leaning against a trash can.
he whistled and said
“where you goin’, pink jacket?”

i gripped my keys
and kept walking
with my head down.
i reduced myself
the same way
he reduced me
to a silly piece of clothing.

now i’m 21
and trying out
the dating pool.
i thought i was
ready for the swim
but i didn’t
anticipate
this many sharks.

apparently
my flesh
is the most interesting
thing about me.

who decided that
my boobs
(some sacks of fat)
are more valuable
than my brain
(a hub of creativity)?
they must have been
very silly.

i understand the intrigue.
my body can
breathe.
sing.
love.
run.
dance.
create.
my body is a fucking powerhouse.

but my body is also
manipulated.
invalidated.
objectified.
commodified.
utilized.
brutalized.
my body is a fucking nuisance.

so which is it:
am i defined
by my body?
or does my body
define me?

but that’s not my decision.
you have to choose.
do you
want me?
or do you want my body?