By the age of six, I had come to the conclusion that I was bad at being a girl.
I hated the colour pink, dresses, nails, and flowers — anything I found really pretty.
I came to despise the idea of being feminine, of being weak.
I would run astray with the boys — one of the few privileged to do so — and life was easy,
because I was bad at being a girl.

At twelve, I’d realised I was smart.
Or smarter than the people around me, at least.
Every science class, I held my hand up high.
I would look around and see raised hands — mine and four boys’.
So I thought it an accomplishment; I imitated the mannerisms of men around me.
I kept my voice strong, I suffocated people with my opinions.
I was smart because I was bad at being a girl.

But is that all it was?
That girls were bad at science and sports,
at wearing baggy clothes, at understanding the world or changing it?
Did girls only wear makeup, discuss clothes, or giggle when boys looked their way?
Did girls only act according to the male gaze — according to my gaze?

If I had, in fact, failed at being a girl, would I fail at being a woman?
Would I fail at love? At laughter? At kindness?
Would my desire to be seen as a fighter stifle the very last threads of girlhood I could experience?

Sometimes I remember myself as a little girl.
I wish I could tell her she didn’t have to erase all her femininity or hate the colour pink —
she could be pretty without it being all that she was.
I still don’t believe that sometimes,
but nevertheless, now that I’ve grown,
I wish I had believed I was good at being a girl.

When I started liking the colour pink,
I believed that I am good at being a girl.