15 (Listen to Me)

sadness is a competition and something to be fed.
my face changes every day, I stop trying
to recognize it. I cut tiny pieces of my hair
to feel like a criminal. on Sunday nights
I teach myself to cry. I fantasize about
being poisoned in a rose garden and a billowing
Indigo gown. I try to run away from home
without leaving my bed. it’s the first year
I forget my age, the first year the number
exceeds my expectations of myself. I am too
aware of the wrong things and my name tastes
foreign in my mouth. I change it. I practice
my smile in the mirror. I regret learning
to cry. the winter lasts three years and I emerge
with lavender stains and shaking limbs
having learned to paint my face and sit with
my shoulders caved forward to shield my chest.

the future is a bloody fog I cut my hand
through every midnight. Fifteen: a wide eyed
weak kneed stand-
still.
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