womanchild Words by Jenny Jung
A tornado uproots a house, and it falls Onto a town where I can’t read the signs. I don’t even remember falling asleep but I Woke to find I no longer recognise my hands. Sometimes in those eyes in my mirror, staring, I can vaguely see the child that lives within me. And this body of mine feels far too big for her Too awkward, I think, as I step out of the shower. The bruises on my knees tell that I have fallen. Many times, in fact, but I can’t recall where. Their redness tells me there is blood inside me But I don’t feel human. I am a wave-beaten cliff. I stand just five-foot-four and my hair is jet black. But it’s red-brown in the sunlight, just like how Often, my five-foot-four body feels overgrown For the scared child I’ve yet to grow out of. I used to look to the sun, and I thought I’d be The sturdy vessel that holds the water still But the sun has long set, and now I realise I’m just a small fish gasping for air in a puddle.
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