We were girls once. Torpedo chests with new breasts, just us against the world; fronts. To hide our vulnerability. We sure fooled them, didn’t we? Made them all think we were glad to be… Newly sexualized and we prized those muggy nights with grasping hands pushed between our thighs, they were ours by right, and we hadn’t learned of shame yet. Hadn’t been called out of name yet. Hadn’t been painted over with blame, regret and forced to feel the fear. But youth soon falls to folly, and grace gives way to gears of social injustice grinding host to ground and giving hurt to hoping. So we learned a new way of coping and hoped they couldn’t see it through. Couldn’t tell us what to do. Every instruction set our path in opposite direction in opposition of protection that we didn’t want, but could have used. But we were at risk of egos being bruised. Then New Age becomes Old News, and we’d be singing blues if we weren’t out of tune from tuning out.