H. Jordan

a poem to my younger self

I can see them watching me

“How gross,” I think

“Look at them 

watching, 

judging, 

leering, 

at an underage girl.”

Maybe that’s part of the appeal

“How humiliating for them,” I think

I refuse to listen to that small voice in my head

That voice that tells me to cover up despite the 90 degree heat

Despite the fact that I’m walking my dogs in the comfort of my own neighborhood

Despite the fact they shouldn’t be looking in the first place

Instead I hold their eye contact 

Instead I refuse to change my clothes

Instead I push away that voice and do whatever the f*ck I want