Me, PTSS afflicted small island state, a late developer
with a mendicant Cinderella complex, swollen with fear
and self-loathing, sell myself for cents and nonsense.
Desperately showing off newly traded status symbols
of development; stumbling several steps behind my
bigger teens' shadows, sniffing their nauseating sillage;
playing dress-up and tripping in fake Jimmy Choo's, when
once I ran barefoot free through virgin forest; glancing
back to check what I dropped, before moving forward.
Me, small girl with high hopes, battered
to low self-esteem; hiding in playground
shadows, trying to catch escaping breath.
Irregular heartbeat skipping, while pot-
bellied boys with thick ears and bruised
lips catapult insults from small mouths;
and clench-kneed girls with marble eyes snigger we have
smart phone doh behind fake-hair-masked fractal-faces;
Donne's purpled blood, beneath my bitten nails.