There are wolves on webpages,
whispering sour somethings to silent, shocked ears,
girls, not yet done growing,
growled at by grown men,
good, feminist, sex positive guys who just want to show them how much fun it is to be a woman.
“This is weird, but… Is it okay if I jerk off to your selfies lol. You’re so cute!”
The text cursor blinks in disbelief,
but she just stares, blankly.
This is her third howl from a wolf in the last hour.
Her age is written in the One Direction gif spam and the Glee branded tank top that took up most of the selfie he salivates over,
and it’s spelled out,
once for each of her fifteen years, in posts and profile details,
but the wolf is playing dumb.
“You don’t look fifteen. You’re so grown up for your age…”
She looks fifteen. Maybe even fourteen.
The text cursor is once again dumbfounded,
but the child is wise beyond her years.
It is her survival skill.
there is no hunter roaming the woods to rid her of the wolf,
no axe available to her hands,
just whisper networks, where children warn each other and wait for the adults to do something about the other adults.
“Random, but I was thinking about you, and I took this picture… You see what you did to me?”
Nobody comes (except the wolves, of course),
and the child adds another whisper to the wind,
growing up, mired in mistrust,
called a prude for being rude to the man who meant her harm.
nobody arrives to save the silent, scared child,
but everyone is shocked when she is reborn at eighteen,
axe in hand,
the hunter she hungered for.