Fat, tall, and poor, well a young girl
couldn't be anymore different or
shouldn’t.
Hard headed with no tears, I
so wanted to be made
in that single moment of creation, of
fire.

There they stood in black
huddled by the books on
‘craft
in the aisle for young fantasy
we stood glaring, laughing, judging
not glass, but a shiny mirror
reflecting.

Slipping out of school early,
brandishing new bags and clothes,
lies  
feet treading along the linoleum tiles,
of halls and malls, sitting in cafés
the pressure changing what showed on the
surface.

Needle pierced skin over
and over again, so much
fire
the pain throbbing, spreading
as ink sunk into my skin
crafting little by little a symbol
pagan.