
































Figueroa FINAL


Content warning: sexual assault/violence, kidnapping, drink spiking, homicide

Born as Yours, as His 

The day I came out screaming and crying 
is the day they found the intern dead. 

You all saw it playing on TV as I was born, 
unfair 
because brother’s birth featured 
just 12 hours of Seinfield. 
A girl becomes a walking target 
From the first second of their breathe, 
Essentially slapped into existence 
And pushed into everything that follows. 
You knew that, from the verdict of the ultrasound 
to when I finally made it home, bundled in your hold, 
your daughter’s face and drool and spilled formula 
against your chest. Breaths, 
like drops of innocence pressed 
against blankets and bibs, just like the rest. 
Only it was days after 

Chandra Levy, May 22, 2002. 
She and the many other girls who made their 
way to Dateline or Amber Alerts or crinkled and ripped 
posters on Walmart bulletin boards—college freshmen 
trying to make it home, wobbling and practically 
wrestling with their heels against the sidewalk, 
women with drinks and short skirts and dresses and drinks … 
hands and pills of others not where they’re supposed to be, 
deep voices, cat calls, men this close to pulling her into their car, 
nighttime and stars and dim lights, running across puddles in alleyways 
with men that chase the trail behind, close like the wet footprints she once owned, 
or 
Daylight, watch her, 
prowl across window sills 
and peer in because it’s his zoo, 
Or across the pavement of flea markets, 
cat eyes, cat calls catch her off guard, 
Or spot and track her from a bush, blended in 
with the natural—they’re everywhere you are: 



Content warning: sexual assault/violence, kidnapping, drink spiking, homicide

NYC, Chicago, maybe around the corner, 
down the street and they’re trying to get me. 

That’s what you told me, that he is 

Always there, keep you eyes peeled because 
they’re watching like a hawk, like Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, 
a god where his glares are nothing but sin, 
always waiting to pull you into their palms and pin 
you down. 
Please, please, slip and fall into his ice water-blue gaze. 
You’re so beautiful for me. I need you, now. 

For the next 18 years, I lived under your eyes, 
In the backyard, a small block of pavement, 
Surrounding by a green lawn— the itchiness of the grass, 
my only escape. I couldn’t ride my bike past 5 PM, 
even on summer days when sunlight survived until 9. 
You insisted I’d be bundled up in neon, green as a glow stick. 
As if my clothes could kick back or signal the National Guard. 
Instead of karate lessons, I received the kidnapping 101 at home: 
Scream help so loud your voice leaves your body. 
Bite their hand off. 
Draw blood. 

Stockton: Breaking News. 
Kristin Smart, 
Cal Poly, 1996. 
Our bodies are always in danger. 
It was already over for me, before me. 

But you don’t know that 
the short skirts I wear, 
the concoctions of rum and coke, 
the men and women I want to kiss, 
the nights I walk in the scent of pine, 
the moments I share, swaying to their heartbeat or 
the jazz of jam sessions in coffee houses, 
the roast and caffeine and energy fill me to the brink, 
won’t kill me. 



Content warning: sexual assault/violence, kidnapping, drink spiking, homicide

The eyes that require perfection 
will strangle me until 
my very last breath…. 

Author’s note: With the rate of sexual assault on campus, I often think about how womxn are 
born into and raised to be scared of the world around us. That we are always on the defense with 
the war on our bodies. Even with similar dangers that men can face, we are sheltered and 
protected without choice while men have far more freedom to do what they want. For example, 
cishet men tend to feel more safe walking around at night and do not need help o be on-guard at 
parties. Rather than addressing the root of the problem in how our bodies should be respected, 
society places the burden on us, and we have to bring this trauma or acknowledge risks in every 
space we enter. It’s suffocating. A burden is placed onto womxn the second we enter this world, 
screaming and crying, and we carry it with us into adulthood. Every generation before has 
sustained this burden, so much so this protective nature toward daughters is instilled in 
parenting. Ultimately, this poem delves into how growing up in fear stunted my growth and 
required extra attention to embark on new experiences.


