When I was a little girl

it was easy for me

to run blindly toward the trees,

scuttle up them with ease,

and see if anyone would

notice the absentee.

When I was a little girl,

I gripped a notebook in my fists,

went everywhere with it

scribbled my thoughts, my lists.

When I was a little girl,

I hid in closets with the coats,

wrapped in the darkness and hoped

that someone would come looking for me.

When I was a little girl,

my mind worked out the world

as being full of love that curled

it’s tail elusively from me.

I thought I had to be so good,

so soft, so well behaved

because whenever I acted like the boys,

I was not celebrated for being that way.

When I was a little girl

I thought that love was shared in doses:

a cup for those who never strayed,

a pinch for those not close to.

When I was a little girl,

I took my heart up to the trees

whispered secretly to myself:

I know the world has love

for little girls like me.

So when you see me now

with my eyes up toward the trees

and notebooks clutched inside my fists —

I am loving up

that little girl in me