War for self.2

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Snapshots over the years

I am three, four, five, six

And the nurses are holding me down

in number, to stab me with sharp hollow spikes.

My tears mean nothing and I am hoarse from screaming.

Poor mum.

 

I am seven,

The comb rips through my always knotty hair,

Too weak to fight mum off.

I don't want to!

The futile foot-stamp and growl of a school-ager wanting to be left alone.

 

I am ten,

Skinny and small and popular with my peers,

In the way that tossed chips are popular with seagulls.

They choke on me, though,

Because I am no easy meat.

 

I am fourteen,

He has laughed after me, mockingly

And I punched his ugly face all the way to the Vice-Principal's office.

Go back to class, Rob, this little shit is a trouble maker,

Well done, son.

 

I am eighteen,

Studying.. pfft, hating, a laboratory course,

I stand up, walking away from the suffocating microscopes and white coats,

Out, out into the free air of an otherwise depressing industrial back lot

Out there amidst the skips and silos.

 

I am nineteen,

At university, still open, still warm, still loving

And suddenly I'm not a pariah,

But, geez, I'm lonely...

I wish one of these thousand beauties would return my love.

 

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