Sylvia Fights Off The Boys
Everytime, it comes around
to this
I know when to expect it
He will caress my face with
his forefinger, his floppy
fringe hanging over
his eyes
He will trace
the scar on my cheek
back and forth
erasing it, and he will say
'How did you get this?'
and each time
I tell another story
but the truth of it is
it was a rollerskating accident
and the truth of it is
a pirate with his rapier
and the truth of it is
I am a rotting apple
and it is my worm
and the truth of it is
it was the sharp bite of death
and the truth of it is
I hit my face climbing out
of my grave
but the truth of it is
good girls don't have scars
Helen Rickerby
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