When you’re 5
they tell you you’re made of bubblegum glory and the ribbons mommy fastens
over what’s left of your adorably butchered curls —
the result of a rainy day and safety scissors
When you’re 15
they tell you you’re made of stardust.
You believe it,
and the poetry you can’t write
in pages tainted with angst or ailment — well,
you believe that too
for a few blurred years.
When you’re on the unforgiving cusp of adulthood,
you’re made of nothing —
that you’ve figured out for yourself
when pats on the head are scarce.
You rummage through stained shades of pink and aged stars gone dim
for those old safety scissors
and butcher yourself.
Samantha Parks - raspberrying