By 14 we were ripe, soft skin like the flesh of swollen peaches - ready for harvest and sickly sweet in our innocence. 

By 15 our minds had hardened, defences at the ready for the dogs who came running - tongues lashing - claws scratching at the pavement beneath our bedroom windows.  

By 16 we had learned to walk with our arms wrapped around our chests, we had learned to demand that we were not created just to be seen as chunks of meat bleeding out in the sunshine.  

By 17 we had already been devoured by a society that told us we were never going to be enough (that we were too much) that it wasn’t our fault unless we let our limbs hang free beneath cotton school dresses; the curve of a tanned thing above a long white sock enough reason to lay blame.

By 18 we were no longer jailbait but fair game, we had memorised the over used/less than romantic pick up lines and whistles that came tumbling from the mouth of men who should know better. 

We were bracing ourselves and abrasively waiting for the next time we would feel violated by a pair of prying eyes or hands that came from darkness to steal any shred of comfortability we had managed to maintain.

We were young women who hated what that word meant to you, sick of walking home filled with child like terror of whatever lay ahead.
We were young women trying to reclaim the right to bare our bones and say “i am worthy of respect, no matter what you see when you look at me.