Year 6 is never as hard as year 9
it is when I realized I was holding in pee
and the spouting waxy rub
that carries the aura of a rock
you pushed it in
but in the remote
so it doesn’t spring up
or the hollow gap doesn’t falter.
I never knew
the bondage of clean hands
was a misconception
of a gullible gray matter.
So the warm fluid that ran down my leg
was another failure before my 10th year.


After the broiling of my sacred chest
I was still in my 10th age
the right boob was still growing although
the after effects of the broil
left it in a plastic sack
always attached
but with bulging arteries
on each oblique lane
treading on the mound.

I searched each wooden,
disoriented chest,
there were a total of 16
carved in crumbly utopia
with coordinated skill.
Compared to my indented
chest, the 16 were looming
over in concrete stiffness,
at least 200 feet of pixies
in length.
I shouted in a voice of
acute amnesia,
for all the other rotted herd
to gather from behind the
angular cracked holes,
that were spread across
in clouded obscurity.

“Go away fruit nipple!”
times 3.

The insult didn’t sting
as much as it carved
slush lines on my forehead,
heard it 3 gross ears back,
first ear in my white frock
with a silk blue restraint
wrapped around my neck,
hooks on either side of my lips,
ending inside my mouth.
The specific recall made me pant,
forming froth down my chin
and my head snapped into ease.

I skipped my legs making merry,
frolicking with memory of all that is now
I hummed the song of hair pulling
and squeezed my rough nipple
before cutting off a physical lip smirk
for the approaching herd.

The smile will float ever in the palm of pixie cake.


Sarah Edwards is a writer and/or a poet. She is breathing for now. Her mostly neglected tumblr.