Today I am not eighteen

I am not a eighteen year old girl,
slipping into tights which elongate my legs.
Placing my hair into a silky bouquet
sensing his eyes wash over me like breath;
held between his senses for a second,
released as a tumble of heels at the station.

Today I awoke in a house with walls flat on their side,
my brother already left for school
traces of his mathematics set across the kitchen table.
His protractor makes a point;
my mother cups it in her palm like his memory is contained in silver.

Upstairs my bed is a hexagonal tip,
your body's shadow flickers across my sheets.
I am not ready for this screening-
don’t take my skin and flash it back at me like a mirror.
Today I am not an eighteen year old girl,
my papery flesh is fragile, crumbled like an old poem.
But you've read my words before and there is nothing new to learn.