The Other Girls

The Other Girls

The other girls
never burn red
or twitch or stutter.

I read of princesses
pricking their fingers
on thorns and spindles.
Yet I prick mine
on the sharp tin foil
of a sour yogurt lid.

I am messy. I am a bottomless pit.
I itch and I wince and I cringe
like something in me is wrong.

Everywhere I look
I see smoothed out skirts
with not a thread out of place.
The other girls
collect kisses and compliments.
All they have to do is make a wish
and it is granted before
anything has time to break.

Tonight I pour
the regrets in my heart
to not a shooting star
but a smashed up phone screen.
On second glance,
the cracks split into constellations.

I look into the broken mirror
as though it is magic.
On the other side,
I see the other girls
who feel the same.