Growing up Conservative

Growing up conservative is growing up a slave

Is growing up being told that my body is not my own

That my hips, my thighs, my breasts, my body is not my own

That my body belongs to my parents first and the man that will marry me second.


The man that will wrap a ring around my finger like a noose

Leaving me to be chained forever to the same dull tree

Being told that my worth is defined by the freshness of the blossoms budding between my thighs


That if a man breaks through my garden walls

Leaves my flowers without one petal

Leaves their stems and roots burning

It is my fault for not giving myself the burden of thorns


That my worth is determined by the freshness of one single flower

As if I myself am not a whole forest

Full of loving and longing, sensuality and sensibility


Yes, a few of my trees have been scorched, cut down, left to die

But that does not make my garden less beautiful

It does not make my forest less alive

It does not dim the vivid tones of the flowers which refuse to be defeated


Growing up conservative is being told that my garden is shameful

That I must never admire my forests’ beauty

That my flowers are not worthy of affection

That they are worthless weeds stretching through the concrete


Growing up loving myself gave me the key to my own garden

It made the ashes of forests burned blossom into a beautiful valley of flowers, to be loved by anyone worthy of their entity.

This poem is about: 
My family


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