Blossoming

At fifteen I stood alone
in my bedroom. Locked the door.
Slowly slid my t-shirt over my head,
unclipped the teeth of my bra. Let it fall to the floor.

Inspected my reflection in the mirror;
the straps left tracks over my shoulders – fault lines.
There were deep red ridges across my back
like a second, horizontal spine.

Next - struggled out of my jeans.
The button popped open – easy, gasping like a cork.
I had a circle print below my navel,
another scar from the umbilical cord.

My thighs stared back, smirking,
discoloured and stretch-mark laced.
My hesitant fingers mapped each path
that swelled to a forest.

I wondered, was this what blossoming meant –
wishing you had never waved childhood goodbye?
I turned away from myself.
Bit my lip – tried not to cry.