Mafalda Oliveira

Forced to grow up

September of 2019,

I still remember...

I think.

of what it was like to pick up Lemons with my two favorite people

no, family

of what it was like to walk alongside them

as equals

of what it was like to gash the words out of

my throat

of what it was like to confess my sins

oh my terrible sins

my deepest darkest secrets

that just so happened to happen

To 2 out of 10 girls worldwide.

This is not a cry for help,

It is a protest,

It is the sharing of a tale

A story

An experience

A feeling.

Something

that I can only confess in this poem,

Or else I wouldn’t have the courage to speak up.

Because the guilt sometimes washes over me

one that

doesn't come from a forbidden fruit,

one that

wasn't due to my lack of self-control.

one that

could have changed

the lives of many young girls

But

because of my

overwhelming fear

And my

tunnel vision

hands trembling

cacophony of sounds

I said no-

it is not number one,

number two

or number three.

and because of me,

because I just can't seem to remember

March of 2019.

Somewhere, in an obscure Park

a 12-year-old girl

with too many guts

will walk around pridefully

until the moment she's forced to grow up.

And outside of that door,

Outside that metal gate,

Sits a girl on a bench,

Quietly waiting to become a woman.

Because no girl could ever grow without any pain,

Any suffering,

Any mistreatment.

Without being the two out of ten.

But there is another side,

For this is not a story to feel sorrow for,

It is not an experience to pitty for,

It is not a feeling that should be normalized,

Or glorified.

This story has not been told from the victim’s perspective,

For I was not the one who lost my humanity.

The survivor