to be seen is to be known

i am fifteen,

tartan tunic

splayed over my knees,

bum numb

from sitting on the gym floor

during assembly,

when my best friend

lays her wrist against mine,

comparing us side-by-side,

my virginal skin

next to her limb

littered with milk-white lines -

untold stories

of shame and pain

inside.

i am thirty,

lying on a foldout hospital bed

in a cupboard of a consult room,

trackies shoved down to my knees,

whilst a doctor focuses intently,

pushing together edges of wounds

with gloved fingers and glue.