Conversation With My Thirteen-Year-Old Self

You sit on your dad’s desk chair
prodding that pale star-shaped scar
on your right thumb,
trying to mould it back into the skin.
But still it reappears, shining just as before.

At school they call you ‘fatty’
and wipe their shoes on your bag.
You’re always picked last for teams,
but this gives you longer to daydream
- about plotting Henry Fulton’s demise.
You see him kissing Paige in the lunch line.
She’s thin and pretty with gingerbread plaits.
Oh, how you envy her.

At night you write that boy’s name
on a piece of folded red paper
and sprinkle sugar over the top,
placing it under your pillow,
just like your friend told you to.
She said if you wished hard enough
he’d ask you out.

But part of you doesn’t believe that.
You’re a rebel, Rebecca.
I know you feel that burn
clinging to your heart.
And it won’t let go.

Because you know you’ll show them.
Because, like that star on your right thumb,
every time they try to fade you out
you only return, shining brighter
than ever before.