Thick lips, thick thighs, wide hips, big eyes.

I knew I was growing up when my body began to change.

 

At first it was subtle,

like a sculptor molding clay, it took time.

 

My face lost the baby weight of my youth,

my skin infiltrated by acne.

 

The once pudginess of my body spread out with height.

 

Aching with the pains of growth and ravenous with hunger,

I was enduring the change.

 

It had felt as if my body betrayed me.

 

The ruby faucet between my legs dripped monthly,

sometimes leaving crimson stains behind.

 

Other girls, so different from myself embrace it,

they enjoy the sore mounds of flesh developing on their chests,

but mines felt like it hurt worst than the rest.

 

The feelings of betrayal evaporated when acceptance washed over me.

I was growing up, I was becoming who I am supposed to be.

 

While the width of my hips brought on more attention than I’d like,

the structure of my figure made me seem bigger, and much more mature.

I was frightened before, but now I am sure.