by Chad Gurley

When I was a child,
I had a limp wrist.
My arm would rise up
as my hand dangled below.
Every time daddy saw me
carrying myself so,
he would slap my hand down,
training me to be a boy.
Boy oh boy.

When I was a child,
I was a pretty girl.
My hair a strawberry blonde
with naturally curly locks.
Every time mommy heard
such candid remarks,
she would clip off my hair,
so the presumption would stop.
Clippity clop.

Yet somehow girlhood
never got chopped off.


© 2005 Chad Gurley

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