When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships - a poem by Annabel Brown Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

I have many creative passions and have been raised to pursue where my creative passions lead me. Currently, I am a published poet, a member of UCONN's University's Ballet Company, had my artwork featured in a gallery, make and sell jewelry, and model for local businesses. I am also fascinated with fashion and style and would love to learn how to sew and design someday. Art is a place I can always turn to. It sparks joy in me and has gotten me through low points in my life. It is a place for me to channel my emotions and make a positive impact. Of all of my creative pursuits, poetry, and dance are currently the most important to me. I have been dancing my entire life, and when I went to a performing arts high school for writing, I fell in love with poetry. It is a place for me to go when I can't go anywhere else. When I don't know how I'm feeling, it seems like my pen always does. It isn't until I reread a rough draft and decipher my own metaphors that I'm able to understand how I'm feeling. Not only does poetry improve my mental state and help me understand myself, but it can also inspire others and help them discover things about themselves. The spoken word poem 'Teenage Girls Are Like Poetry' inspired me to write my poem 'Ships' about what it feels like to be a teenage girl. In this poem, I compare women to ships. This poem has won recognition in many literary competitions and I was asked to perform it in front of the administration and faculty of my school's district. Dance is also such an important part of who I am. When I dance, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I feel the same catharsis as crying or laughing, and I can let the world know how I feel with my body. A lot of people think of dance and ballet as unsubstantial, but they underestimate it. A ballerina has to have the strength of an athlete, the performance skills of an actor, and the grace of a model. Not only that, to be a good dancer, you need to connect with the motions and the music. To dance is to be vulnerable, strong, and unbreakable. Dancing makes me feel free, and watching dance inspires me and makes me feel like I am not alone. I could not live without dance. If I had an extra 24 hours in a day, I wish I could use it to dance without getting tired and write without losing vigor. To be so in touch with my inner artist that I know no limits is something I've always longed for. I don't have an extra 24 hours in a day, but I spend as much time as I can with the restrictions of an analog clock fulfilling my craving to be creative.

Olivia Rodrigo's 'GUTS' is a revolutionary album released by a teenager about the teenage experience. This album reminds listeners of other iconic albums and EPs by teenage girls, such as 'Don't Smile at Me' by Billie Eilish and 'Pure Heroine' by Lorde. These albums hold extreme importance because it provides teenage girls someone like them that they can look up to. Rodrigo's music is also profound because the content of the music is very specific to a teenage girl, who are often mistreated or snubbed, and struggle finding their place in the world. Personally, my favorite memory of the Olivia Rodrigo album 'GUTS' is when she released 'vampire' before the rest of the album. I was driving around my small hometown with one of my closest childhood friends. We had 'vampire' on full blast and were screaming at the top of our lungs with the windows down. Rain was pelting down, wind was whipping through our hair, and we were completely soaked to the bone after taking photos for instagram in her elementary school parking lot at 1 a.m. Not only was this moment cathartic, it felt so amazing to be able to connect with my friend like that. I know that is going to be a core memory that I hold onto for a while, when I reflect on what it was like to be a teenage girl. However, the song that I believe completely encapsulates the teenage experience of a girl is 'all-american bitch.' The sarcastic lyrics reflect on the double standards and ridiculous expectations placed on american teenage girls. However, the coda is the part of the song where it really reflects how I and many other teenage girls are treated. 'all the time i'm grateful all the time i'm sexy and i'm kind i'm pretty when i cry' This part of the song represents everything I feel like I have to be. It's contradictory and its full of double standards and it is everything I criticize myself for not being and compare myself for not being. Women are expected to be grateful all the time, despite facing a number of inequalities against men, like the national wage gap (where nationally, women earn 82 cents for every 1 dollar a man is payed) the sexual assault statistics (81% of women have experienced sexual assault in their lives whereas 43% of men have), and the gender gap in leadership positions (where women hold 35% and men hold 65% of leadership positions). Women are also expected to be simultaneously sexy and kind at the same time. It is even more felt as a teenager, (where no adult should be looking at a teenager sexually anyways) and is clear if you look at how teenage female pop stars are targeted sexually. There have been multiple cases of magazines, companies, and the general public following a 'countdown' until they turn 18 are are legal, or pouncing on their sexual legality the moment of their birthday. This has happened to artists like Kendall Jenner, Lindsay Lohan, Emma Watson, the Olsen Twins, Chloe Kim, Natalie Portman, Kylie Jenner, Britney Spears, and more. The expectation to be kind when sexually exploited is perverse, and, sums up the experience of an American teenage girl. I believe Olivia Rodrigo is one of many revolutionaries that created an environment where young teenage girls can feel safe and gives them a space to be angry about what is happening to them. At least, that's what she does for me.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

My favorite tarot card stems from a fond memory from a little over 2 years ago. There was this girl. We had been friends for around a year, but had gotten closer over the summer. I had developed a hopeless crush on her and needed to do something about it. Eventually I decided that enough was enough, and I was going to make the first move. I invited her over for a sleepover with that planned in mind. I anxiously awaited and eventually the day came. I rushed her into my room, and I knew what I had to do. I needed to see what was in store for her before I made my move. So, I brought out my tarot deck to read her near future. What came up was interesting. I don't remember the first cards I pulled, but the next two set the tone for the next of the night: The Four of Wands, and then The Empress. The Four of Wands represents celebration, good harvest, prosperity, peace, and showcases two women holding hands and celebrating. That card has always made me think of lesbian marriage, so I knew the night was going to go well. Then when I pulled the Empress, I knew that I wasn't the only one that had feelings. The Empress represents strong femininity, as well as strong connection and affinity with women. She also represents anticipation, or expecting something. I look at this girl and I ask her, "What are you anticipating, Morgan? What are you planning?" She just looked at me, winked, and said "You'll just have to wait and see." That night we had our first kiss, and we have been together ever since. This moment was so special to me, and holds a place in my heart. The four of wands is my favorite tarot card because I feel like it represents our relationship together and how happy we both are, and reminds me of that night. So, I used it to write a poem called 'The Lovers' based on this moment. I used the tarot card The Lovers in the poem, since it is more well known, but the Four of Wands is really my favorite. My poem won an award at the Eastern Connecticut Student Writers Competition about a year ago. The Lovers I dole out tarot cards in search of hidden meanings, fingers fumbling with crinkled edges. My heart skips when I catch her gaze - as if I hold secrets that stretch beyond the painted papers in my hands. I am trapped in her hazel eyes. Irises reflect and fragment a world of sparkling galaxies. Her pupils dilate, expand to black holes that consume time and space until only she is left. The tarot is forgotten. Warm fingers press prints into my skin. I memorize the sensation of soft hands so that if I let go, I'll remember. She holds my pulsing heart in her palm, peppers my skin with little love marks like the sun-cast shadows of an oak tree. A prophecy radiates in patterns on my skin more tangible than the scattered major and minor arcana can foretell. Hands and heartbeats interlace in the midst of late night revelations. Bent tarot and bed sheets wrap us in the present, while possibilities burn in our fingertips. 'The Lovers' lay between us: whispering a promise foretold.

My favorite tarot card stems from a fond memory from a little over 2 years ago. There was this girl. We had been friends for around a year, but had gotten closer over the summer. I had developed a hopeless crush on her and needed to do something about it. Eventually I decided that enough was enough, and I was going to make the first move. I invited her over for a sleepover with that planned in mind. I anxiously awaited and eventually the day came. I rushed her into my room, and I knew what I had to do. I needed to see what was in store for her before I made my move. So, I brought out my tarot deck to read her near future. What came up was interesting. I don't remember the first cards I pulled, but the next two set the tone for the next of the night: The Four of Wands, and then The Empress. The Four of Wands represents celebration, good harvest, prosperity, peace, and showcases two women holding hands and celebrating. That card as always made me think of lesbian marriage, so I knew the night was going to go well. Then when I pulled the Empress, I knew that I wasn't the only one that had feelings. The Empress represents strong femininity, as well as strong connection and affinity with women. She also represents anticipation, or expecting something. I look at this girl and I ask her, "What are you anticipating, Morgan? What are you planning?" She just looked at me, winked, and said "You'll just have to wait and see." That night we had our first kiss, and we have been together every since. This moment was so special to me, and holds a place in my heart. The four of wands is my favorite tarot card because I feel like it represents our relationship together and how happy we both are, and reminds me of that night. So, I used it to write a poem called 'The Lovers' based off of this moment. I used the tarot card The Lovers in the poem, since it is more well known, but the Four of Wands is really my favorite. My poem won an award at the Eastern Connecticut Student Writers Competition about a year ago. The Lovers I dole out tarot cards in search of hidden meanings, fingers fumbling with crinkled edges. My heart skips when I catch her gaze - as if I hold secrets that stretch beyond the painted papers in my hands. I am trapped in her hazel eyes. Irises reflect and fragment a world of sparkling galaxies. Her pupils dilate, expand to black holes that consume time and space until only she is left. The tarot is forgotten. Warm fingers press prints into my skin. I memorize the sensation of soft hands so that if I let go, I'll remember. She holds my pulsing heart in her palm, peppers my skin with little love marks like the sun-cast shadows of an oak tree. A prophecy radiates in patterns on my skin more tangible than the scattered major and minor arcana can foretell. Hands and heartbeats interlace in the midst of late night revelations. Bent tarot and bed sheets wrap us in the present, while possibilities burn in our fingertips. 'The Lovers' lay between us: whispering a promise foretold.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. This scholarship will fund further education in my passion. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. This scholarship will fund further education in my passion. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. This scholarship will fund further education in my passion. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and said innuendos to me. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. This scholarship will fund the continuation of my education in my passion. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. This scholarship will continue to fund my studies in my passion. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. This scholarship will help me continue my studies in my passion. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. Now, I am a member of University Ballet Company (UBC) at UCONN and am so excited to begin this next chapter of dance in my life. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem “How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry” by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. I turned seventeen and a car pulled up to me on the side of the road and tried to get me to go in. Now, I’m eighteen and I’m not allowed to answer the phone at my job because too many times someone has called asking me sexual questions. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am eighteen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

I was not in the foster care system. When I was twelve, I found a video of a poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would be like. Ships Becoming a woman is a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

My future self is an empowered woman who is confident, kind, and makes a positive impact and change wherever she goes; she is not afraid to be who she is and uplift other women.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours. Another thing that I am extremely passionate about, is dance. Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre. I understand that I or my essay do not complete the requirements for this scholarship application. However, I am aware that when no eligible applicants apply, there is money from the scholarship leftover that they have nothing to do with. I am applying on the off chance that no eligible applicants apply. I have worked hard and despite not meeting the requirements, I believe that I deserve this scholarship. Thank you for your time.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre. I understand that I or my essay do not complete the requirements for this scholarship application, however I am aware that when no eligible applicants apply, they have nothing to do with the money. I am applying on the off chance that no other applicants apply. Thank you for your time.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I will always remember the people that I met through dance. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I will never forget the people that I met through dance. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Becoming a woman is a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man was staring at my chest through my t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. Wood rot aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre. I understand that I or my essay do not complete the requirements for this scholarship application, however I am aware that when no eligible applicants apply, they have nothing to do with the money. I am applying on the off chance that no other applicants apply. Thank you for your time.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. I was certainly becoming a woman, and I vaguely knew that it would be hard, but the hurdles a woman faces today is rarely discussed. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours. I understand that I or my essay do not complete the requirements for this scholarship application. However, I am aware that when no eligible applicants apply, there is money from the scholarship left over that they have nothing to do with. I am applying on the off chance that no eligible applicants apply. I have worked hard and despite not meeting the requirements, I believe that I deserve this scholarship. Thank you for your time.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections that will last a lifetime. I also got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. As mentioned previously in my application, I volunteer regularly at my dance studio doing a number of other things. We donate the profits from our annual Christmas recital to the local food bank, and even travel around to local senior centers performing our show. Our performance team continuously performs at fundraisers and events for debilitating diseases like Multiple Sclerosis and Alzheimer's. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections with other communities that will last a lifetime. I also experienced for the first time what it’s like to give back with others. I got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see at these events, and I just became closer with the people I was already friends with. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4 year old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. My first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed to in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic, because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. As mentioned previously in my application, I volunteer regularly at my dance studio doing a number of other things. We donate the profits from our annual Christmas recital to the local food bank, and even travel around to local senior centers performing our show. Our performance team continuously performs at fundraisers and events for debilitating diseases like Multiple Sclerosis and Alzheimer's. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has really formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center, and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections with other communities that will last a lifetime.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. The first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. As mentioned previously in my application, I volunteer regularly at my dance studio doing several other things. We donate the profits from our annual Christmas recital to the local food bank and even travel around to local senior centers performing our show. Our performance team continuously performs at fundraisers and events for debilitating diseases like Multiple Sclerosis and Alzheimer's. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections with other communities that will last a lifetime. I also experienced for the first time what it’s like to give back with others. I got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see at these events, and I just became closer to the people I was already friends with. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4-year-old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem, called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea, used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting at me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and a few months ago, a student masturbated to my high school dance performance in the middle of a full audience. I rewatched the poem as I relived the poet's story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. These people I discuss haven’t faced consequences for things they did. Whether I was too scared to speak, or no one helped me when I asked: not the school, not my parents, not my guidance counselor. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It is my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. I was certainly becoming a woman, and I vaguely knew that it would be hard, but the hurdles women face today are rarely discussed. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

Brain Chemicals Fluorescent lights bounce off bricked white walls revealing rot and rancid thoughts that carve their way into skin. Raised red letters emerge and spell out things even tongue-tied patients can’t bring themselves to explain: Annoying. Thoughtless. Burden. They blindly gaze at their reflections in screens, comparing their tears with those that fall from alluring eyes of actresses bound by beauty standards, winning Oscars for glittering disguises of hideous truths. The scene is a facade - not representation, but romanticization of neurotransmitters’ broken connections. The media names it pretty, yet it’s passively painful; A resurrected story lost in translation. Dark thoughts glide across bedroom floors like ghosts in a graveyard. They lurk in corners of minds, sever serotonin receptors and dopamine transmitters. Pickling brains in acid: a self-destructive stew. Threads of pretense harness frowns into smiles, stitch words into skin: Pretty. Nice. Compliant. Teenagers cling onto echoing hope that ricochets off walls of floundering psyches. Pieces of flesh flake and form - the remains of identity marinate in pools of self-loathing. Mutated images of self reflect back onto the magnified glitter of a screen. Neat lines of seams hold together shaking frames made up of bruises and scar tissue. A now empty television screen leaves words on repeat in lonesome minds like the beating of a heart: Repaired. Controlled. Perfect.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would really be like. Thinking about what Priceman said about being a teenage girl made me think about what it would be like for me: Ships Becoming a woman has the feeling of a sinking ship. Both picked apart in mind: pronouns and perceptions. Flesh reassembled into wood, hung on oak like ornaments. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I rewatched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I rewatched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I rewatched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I rewatch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. A pale belly swells with breath and sail, creaking helms fill with water. wood rots and aches and cracks apart until the ocean swallows like a creature devouring salt water, stomach acids digesting deep in its belly. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. Stale air in lungs rasps and twists, turns sour like an underwater cave. Stomach tangles like seaweed stretching and struggling to reach a glimpse of sunlight. Barnacles stick and crunch at neurons. A disturbing pressure: words will never reach the surface. Even silent ships sink. Hull creaks and voice box vibrations still fall on deaf ears. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships. Women are not ships. We might be treated like them, but our lungs have breath and our hulls have voices. When we sink, we rise, pushing back to the surface. Alike only in pronouns, ships and women are not the same. We are not yours.

When I was twelve years old, I found a video of a spoken word poem called How Teenage Girls are Like Poetry by Sophie Priceman. Though it spoke to me about womanhood, I thought that the serious topics discussed, and the adversity the poet faced wouldn’t pertain to me. I was certainly becoming a woman, and I vaguely knew that it would be hard, but the hurdles women face today are rarely discussed. It was hard to read between the lines of history to discover what it would be like. Then, I turned thirteen. I began to experience life like a new vessel out to sea used for many things: entertainment, joyrides, and appearances. An old man wouldn’t stop staring at my chest through my tight t-shirt at the pizza parlor the next town over. I decided to watch the poem again thinking maybe I could relate to more of it than I had a year ago. I turned fourteen, and an older boy pulled me on top of him, pressed himself against me, and pressured me into getting into bed with him. I re-watched the poem. I turned fifteen and a man followed me out of the library down the street, shouting after me. I re-watched the poem. I turned sixteen and old strange men grabbed my waist and called me pretty, on two different occasions. I re-watched the poem. Now, I’m seventeen and men call after me as I cross the street after school, school bag slung over my shoulders. I re-watch the poem as I relieve Priceman’s story. Sophie Priceman was seventeen, like me. She said she hoped eighteen and nineteen would be odes and not elegies. I don’t hope. I make change. No matter what, something is going to happen. Reflecting on my own experience has been heartbreaking, but watching my peers have similar experiences shatters me. So instead of hoping for change, I make change. Those shards of heartbreak fuel the fire of my passion to fight for people like me. I want to further my research in women and gender studies because I want to make the world a better place for women. BIPOC, LGBTQ+, pregnant, disabled, elderly, first generation, ALL women. It’s my passion that will drive me. At this point in my life, I don’t rewatch the poem. But I still revisit it and share it with those who need to see it. I am seventeen, at the end of the stanza. Instead of listening, it’s time for me to write my own story. I write of Ships.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. The first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. What I didn't realize is that not only would dance help me physically and mentally, it would also cultivate my love for giving back to my community. As mentioned previously in my application, I volunteer regularly at my dance studio doing several other things. We donate the profits from our annual Christmas recital to the local food bank and even travel around to local senior centers performing our show. Our performance team continuously performs at fundraisers and events for debilitating diseases like Multiple Sclerosis and Alzheimer's. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections with other communities that will last a lifetime. I also experienced for the first time what it’s like to give back with others. I got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see at these events, and I just became closer to the people I was already friends with. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4-year-old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

Dance has always been an important part of my life. Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. The first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. What I didn't realize is that not only would dance help me physically and mentally, it would also cultivate my love for giving back to my community. As mentioned previously in my application, I volunteer regularly at my dance studio doing several other things. We donate the profits from our annual Christmas recital to the local food bank and even travel around to local senior centers performing our show. Our performance team continuously performs at fundraisers and events for debilitating diseases like Multiple Sclerosis and Alzheimer's. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis community is very familiar with our dance center and welcomes us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections with other communities that will last a lifetime. I also experienced for the first time what it’s like to give back with others. I got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see at these events, and I just became closer to the people I was already friends with. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4-year-old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and for each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.

Ever since I was little, I was always dancing around the house. Angelina Ballerina was one of my favorite cartoons, and I always wanted to be just like her, twirling onstage in a solo in pink pointe shoes. So, I started going to dance lessons. I loved it right from the get-go. The first class I ever took was hip-hop jazz, and the song we performed in my first recital was ‘Born this way’ by Lady Gaga. It’s kind of ironic because at the time I didn’t know what the song was about and now I take pride in being one of the few queer dancers at my studio. What I didn't realize when I first started dancing was that not only would I love it and become physically stronger because of it, it would influence how I give back to my community. As mentioned previously in my application, I volunteer regularly at my dance studio doing several other things. We donate the profits from our annual Christmas recital to the local food bank and even travel around to local senior centers performing our show. Our performance team continuously performs at fundraisers and events for debilitating diseases like Multiple Sclerosis and Alzheimer's. My dance studio is so immersed in giving back to the community, and it has formed my thoughts about giving back. After spending time with little kids and seeing smiles split across their faces when they learn to plié, or the nurses at the senior centers getting excited about our costumes, the feeling of warmth and love fills me, and I know that helping others is something that I will want to do for a lifetime. I am so grateful for these experiences because they have also opened my eyes to how quickly communities can interlace, and how much power that holds. The owner of my studio knows everyone at the senior centers like the back of her hand. The Multiple Sclerosis communities are very familiar with our dance center and welcome us with open arms every year. Because of the help that we have given them, we have formed beautiful connections with other communities that will last a lifetime. I also experienced for the first time what it’s like to give back with others. I got to become friends with and spend time with people in my studio that I wouldn’t normally see at these events, and I just became closer to the people I was already friends with. Doing good deeds together forms bonds that can’t be broken. For example, my friend Ella and I worked together to help with the 3 and 4-year-old ballet class. What made the whole experience so special to me was seeing the love and excitement they had for dance and each other, and being able to go through it with Ella, talk about it with her, and experience that joy with her. I will be forever grateful for my dance studio and the lessons it taught me that extended beyond the barre.