I recall
the old feel of my skin.
My tiny hand, and fingers
“Five”
Dancing on tops of Dad’s loafers
released from the tyranny
of the meaning
of Who Am I?

I am
“Eleven”
under a sweatshirt
skin itchy in places
face, in the mirror
when I am alone
streaking with unmascaraed tears

I am
“Sixteen”
my hand pushing against
a boys chest
but for no or for yes?
I suppose it is fine,
no mind of mine.

I am
“Eighteen”
Womanly
singular
hiding what is unsure

I am
“Nineteen”
experiences mark me
darken me
writing with tattoos
on my fingers