Do you know a girl with cigarette burns in her skin? Scarred little polka dots, that dot all over her. It’s not sweet, nor pretty especially when you consider that that’s her childhood etched into her skin. Burn for burn. Ash for ash.
She’s still only just a child, but she carries a child inside and has for six months now. She couldn’t ignore it like the others have before her. She loves that child inside, without ever having been taught how to do it.
Love is said in a name. Love is a sigh. Love is thinking about one more than I.
’S’agapo,’ she whispers when the lights go out and she’s tucked into bed like a child. It’s at night when you hear the lack of years in her bravado. She transforms back to ‘growing-up’ instead of playing ‘grown-ups’.
Her cheek is against the pillow, and her polka-arm is around her child. She’s got her steady.