Underestimation

I’m nine years old
and my mother has me perched
on the orange laminate counter
of our patchwork home

tender fingers brush
across my exposed belly
rising and falling
over the mountain range
of tiny white bumps
that populate my skin

I’m nine years old
and at night I don’t sleep
the lights go out, and I’m left
in a bed full of ants
that bite
and crawl at my skin

each morning I rise
with skin stained pink
from scratches I’ve dug
with my nine year old hands

I sit across from my mother
and examine the trenches
growing deeper
between her brows
as over mirrored mugs of tea
she examines me

I’m nine years old
and I’m sent out to a world
that makes
my own body
allergic to itself
because what nine year old child
has this much cortisol
mixed in with their blood
what nine year old child
cares so much
about what those children think
cares so much
about what those adults think

what nine year old child
has so much thought
in their head
that is has to spill out
across their body
in a mountain range
of tiny white bumps
that populate their skin

By Savannah L., 18, Melbourne