THE SUIT

The suit was probably a hand-me-down from my brother, 
and I’m not sure where I got the briefcase, or the shoes, 
but the baseball cap was my own: a relic from the years 
I spent trying to be a trophy for my father’s shelf and failing. 
Benched by my own dad. 

The other girls were what they always were: 
fairies, barbies, princesses and dolls, some babies 
for the third year in a row. But I didn’t want to be 
something so helpless, so kitten.

I pressed the stick-on mustache above my lip 
and ran my finger along it, remembered the time 
my brother cried because dad shaved his off —
he didn’t recognize him without the furry badge 
that made him father. 

I’m not sure if I shoved a sock in my underwear 
or not, but I walked like I had, 
like I inherited the earth.

The other boys tried to one-up each other 
with who was dressed the most powerful: the cop, 
the Power Ranger, the ninja, the shark.

But I knew, as they had taught me in school, 
as life would constantly remind me—a ribbon 
wrapped around my finger so tightly it draws blood— 
I was the most powerful thing I could be. I was a man. 

I didn’t ask sweetly for the with a curtsy or a please.
I jabbed my hand into the bowl. 
I took. 

________________________________________________________
by Megan Falley, from her new book 
Redhead and the Slaughter King (Write Bloody 2014).