You are thirteen.
Your hair is long and brown
and you still wear it braided.
You dress in pink
and write poetry in art class
on paper towels with pink Sharpie.
You think you are wise.
You want to be loved.
You dream of bridges, and flying.
You are fourteen.
You hair is black,
dyed in a river, in a sink, between
your ribs.
You wear black
and draw on all your jeans
with black Sharpie in music class.
You think you are cruel.
You want to be sharper.
You dream of bridges, and falling.
You are fifteen.
our hair is dyed black in a salon
with purple streaks.
You wear chains
and clothes that do not fit.
You write suicide notes on your arms
with black ink in math class.
The teacher calls your parents.
You think you are interesting.
You want to be dead.
You dream of bridges, and sharp rocks below.
You are sixteen.
Your hair is brown again,
loose around your shoulders.
You hide behind long bangs.
You wear clothes that are too big
and gummy bracelets, bunched together
under your sleeves.
You keep your poetry on paper now.
You show your mother what you’ve
written.
Even the cries for help she finds
artful.
You think you are no one.
You want to breathe again.
You dream of bridges, and melting wood planks.
You are seventeen.
You wear your hair up,
out of your face,
with pencils stuck in it.
You wear clothes that fit,
thick sweaters, skirts.
You post your poetry online
and make friends who understand.
You write stories about planets
falling in love,
emotions that change
the entire galaxy,
that make it look as if
the sky is blushing.
You think you are healing.
You want to feel again.
You dream of bridges, and letting your sadness jump.
You are eighteen.
Your hair is long and red
and you wear it braided.
You wear dresses,
floral prints,
soft fabrics,
things that make you sigh
and think of sleeping.
You still write on your skin sometimes
but you can control yourself now
and you never write anything
that makes you think of darkness.
You buy expensive journals
and fill them up,
no longer afraid of your words.
You teach yourself languages.
You don’t think of yourself as alone.
You think you will survive.
You know you are right.
You dream of bridges, and what waits on the other side.
to the people who said it was just a
phase: you were right. // megan virginia
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