Photos by Elisa Garcia de la Huerta, elisaghs.com
I am girl. I am girl? I am girl.
My friend sits a head taller than me, his arm over my shoulder. We are riding on the train. I’m looking at the places where my nail polish chipped and he asks me, “Is it hard being a girl?”
I say, “I don’t know what it means to be a girl.”
He nods at my nails, “I mean doing things like that.”
The clarification falls on a sallow place inside me, a place where I put ideas that I don’t want to take root in the world.
I say, “It’s hard having people assume that’s what being a girl is.”
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