People look at me
And see a distorted child’s face –
My 19 years reduced to a pittance –
As judgement gleams from their eyes.
So they cast their words over my head
Towards a more responsible set of shoulders;
One made of more than me,
Seen as a more reliable focus for information.
Will I ever grow to be seen
Above the ledge of suspicion and mirth?
My mangled sentences are viewed as tired ramblings,
Pouring from the mouth of one juvenile
Who cannot yet sit at the table,
Nor meet the eyes of the rest of them.
After enough eyes pierce your heart,
Minimise you down to a pitiless size,
You can see yourself in the mirror of their face,
Become the infantilised ghost they haunt you with.
Shame begins to creep over your hunched frame
As you look-up through hooded lids,
Blowing another candle from a wounded birthday cake.