Being a teen

Ice cold, the blade hovers
above her arm’s pale skin.
High enough to be hidden,
yet low enough to remind,
the ageing lines scream out.

This one for being fifteen,
another for not being size zero.
Needing someone to love,
but he’ll never notice her,
perhaps a baby would.

Next day, comparing scars
with friends at school.



© Cathy Walter, 2007