Her thick blank bangs hung over glasses
that sat perched on top of a wide, domineering nose,
just below eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, that spoke of knowledge and of strength;
so when she opened her mouth and the words that spilled out told me to stop, to stand back,
I felt betrayed. I was half hunched over:
a question mark curved around a cardboard box, ready to lift,
when her grinding words slowed my gears to a reluctant stop.
She saw my thin arms, my blonde hair, the mascara,
smudged by sweat, around my eyes.

Let a boy do that.

Don't hurt yourself.

If only she saw past that black paint and into the blue determination dancing in my eyes.
For the boy who came was no taller than me and no stronger than me,
yet he was given the freedom to lift the box while I was forced to watch.
Somehow that boy's gangly arms were gang planks that lead to infinite opportunity while mine only served as cords, binding me to a burning ship.