I’m the only girl among my siblings.
One time when I was in elementary school,
My parents were going out to buy some stuff,
And they told my older brother
To keep an eye on me and our younger brother until they came back.
My older brother waited for them to come back outside the apartment,
And I waited with him.

Why does everything bad happen only to me?
I weighed myself yesterday.
I’m gaining, not losing, weight.
I’m depressed.
My body’s a mess.
I need to change.

She stood, pretty as a picture,
In the midst of a place that despised beauty.
The eyes of the passengers, once cold and dead, were now filled with anger and jealousy.
Filled with unspoken words I’ve heard before.

I’m your mother and I have your best interests at heart.
I’m telling you it’s not going to work out.
Building your lives together is not something that’ll work.

I remember during my early teenage years,
When I’d go the beach with my family.
I was 2 or 3 kilos overweight.
Mama has been commenting on my weight and the way my body looks ever since.
body image, parents, bullying

My parents have always been aware and informed, thank God.
One time, when I was younger, mama asked me to hand her some pads.
She wanted me to ask her what they were for.
“This is something all girls will need to use someday.
It’s a sign that they’re getting older and lovelier,” she replied simply.
womanhood, period, parents

“When will you get married?" they ask me every time I’m home.
They treat me like I’m their little project, and they have to make sure I get my happy ever after.
I always joke that they act like my expiration date is coming up.
But to be honest, I’m scared.

I got my period in the 7th grade.
I saw blood stains on my clothes when I was at my grandmother’s.
I ran to the bathroom to wash them off.
I was scared that I had injured myself,
And that mama might beat me up, or tell baba and then he’d beat me up.
womanhood, period, parents

Because she wanted her own place.
She wanted to live.
That’s what a marriage contract was to her: freedom.

“The best thing about you is your tan,” he’d always tell me.
“What tan?” I’d laugh, “I am as dark as chocolate.”
“And I’m crazy about chocolate” he’d respond adoringly.