It was just her fifth birthday,
When she learnt to search for truth,
And she questioned everything she learned,
From then, right through her youth.
She asked who had decided,
Only boys could play in dirt,
But her mother said she didn’t know,
And straightened out her skirt.
She asked what time the sunset,
So she could walk home in its light.
Because she heard it’s far too scary,
To be on the streets at night.
She asked when they would teach her,
What the whistling calls all meant,
But they said she could feel flattered,
It was a type of compliment.
She asked where the saying came from,
That, “Oh boys will be boys.”
And why there wasn’t one that told them,
That, “Girls are not your toys.”
She asked why he’d still done it,
Despite her endless stream of no’s?
Why the words she spoke meant less to him,
Than what lay beneath her clothes.
But they said she had the habit,
Of asking far more than she should,
It doesn’t really matter,
If the world’s not understood.
So she never asked the question,
How they could say that she was free,
When she’d forgotten who she was before,
They said who she should be.