Alternate Realities

At five, it was dolls.
Little white houses,
Long, carpeted halls.
They had dresses.
Long, blond tresses.
I didn't have their blue eyes
Or their long, curling lashes.
I bit into all the lies
Of pretty pinks and sashes.
At five, I learnt
I had to be leggy
Just to be loved.

At fourteen
The rules hadn't changed.
I learnt the codes.
To cook, to clean,
To keep house.
To iron a blouse.
To remove stains.
To wear little chains
And call them jewellery.

Twenty came and went.
As did the boys.
The lean, the mean.
The poetry spouting geek.
The touchy-feely creep.
The sensitive dweeb
Who turned into a tiger
Once inside a cage
Of his choosing.

Another decade disappeared
In calling names,
Being called some.
A feminist, a dragon.
A crier, a whiner, a woman.
Outspoken, radical.
All insults.

I learnt to bake.
To keep accounts
And keep house.
To walk straight, not slouch.
To plump cushions
To mend rents.
To clean kitchen vents.
To swear.
To drink the guys
Right under the table.
To say no.
To go out after dark.
To not need to be looked after.

And the five year old cried.
The teen threw a tantrum.
The rules rewound, rewrote.
The leggy dream
Never did come true.