Underage.

There's a man,
Medium build.
Stains on his shirt where a uniform should be.
And twenty three years later, I'm still
14/M/UK.

This man, you see,
is me. That little girl, you,
About thirteen. You have lost your last milk tooth.
Late.

Plaits in bunches in knots in bushes,
Socks in ravels in wrinkles in old,
Blood in cherry in strawberry shoelaces.
And this
           is all too
                       hard.

Really,
My darling angel,
I'd rather tell you about my boots.

They're brown, like dirt, only filthier,
With more black than beige, more red than anything.
They have aglets that stab,
Laces that castrate me.
My toes have grown toes have grown toes,
And have you seen my sole lately?

Not to mention my instep, it's getting deeper,
There's the tongue that has been ripped out
Intentionally. They stare at me,
My own two feet. Walking beside me,
Wearing these Doc Marts,
Telling me that you can always clean them.

That night, that event,
I remember what it meant. A chance,
nothing more nothing less, to wipe
The blood from the shoes,
The chains from the ankles.

From the floor, from where I am,
Lopsided grin. My shoes,
They're a work of art.

My babies, my two right feet
Burn their way here,
Lighting up the panels of the pavement.
Me, twisting and turning, I feel like a star.

The trees sway away from me,
Leaves removing themselves from my path,
They can sense my genius.
They know I am famous.

And I grab your waist -
The world is on fire.