"You don't walk like one"
he told me.
"Like a vigin"
he clarified.

Any subtleties the sentence had,
lost in that ugly, awful word.

And, forgive me, but I was curious
how they all saw so easily
how they all knew to ask

Had I been branded
on that far-away, early Spetember morning?
Did my voice sound
more hollow? Had I lost
more than just a title?

That I don't walk like on,
was the answer I was given.
"More aware"
he clarified.
I questioned:
"Of?"
but didn't wait for him to say,
because he'd gestured at my body,
my body from the neck down,
and I'd already known anyways
that I did walk differently-
that I knew the way my hips swayed
I was concious of every step
every movement was deliberate
and I was aware
of the glances I collected,
the heads turned.
I talked volumes
my lips making shapes
my tongue hesistating
at the ridge of my top teeth
my legs moving forward
from the hip
swinging out then
from the knee
touching down then
from the heel
to the toe
heel
toe
I don't believe
those are things I can give back.
Just one more thing
he gave me; one more thing
he took away.