The Girl Doesn't Know How To Speak Unless Spoken To

"Put your hand down"

"Keep your shoulders back"

"Pull your dress down" 

"Did you have something to say?" 

My answer was always no. See, when you are asked questions your whole life, you grow to hate them. 

"Is that what your wearing to school?" No

"Are you sure?" No. 

See, when my frinds ask what I'm afraid of, I tell them I'm afraid to speak. 

"Can you speak up?" No 

See, when I was younger, I talked a lot. My mom said my teacher sat me in the corner because of it. 

I liked questions too. I liked knowing answers, I liked being right, being in on a joke, getting the references, showing that maybe I was good at talking and answering questions and raising hands

"Do you have to answer every question?" No

"Can you leave some for the rest of us?" Yes. 

I stopped raising my hand when I realized girls like me weren't supposed to know the answer. It got in the way of the boys who didn't stick their arms in the air fast enough. I stopped talking when I realized I was too loud. I stopped wanting to be right, and started praying for invisibility. 

I prayed for a bigger voice too. A louder one. More hands

Arms 

More things to stick in the air 

Like a neon open

I knew that answer, but it didn't matter.

"Do you want to hear my voice?" No

Eventually, the silence covers you like a warm blanket, the quilt sewn by head shakes and yes ma'ams and no sirs

It smells like old poems and class speeches and all the times I've drowned in the quiet. 

It smells like class medals, participation ribbons, and opinionated speeches. 

See, if you wallow long enough, you beguin to see how you were wrong. 

You put your blanket away

You roll up your sleeve 

you look at all the old answers written there, questions that no longer have a relevance. 

You realize you no longer need a pen

"Does anyone have an answer?" 

Yes.