Late Bloomer

By Izzy Jayham

In the gym changing rooms I am a knotted weed

wound around a metal clothes hook. 

Playing dodgeball in a tight shirt 

and small skirt, 

I begin to fossilise. 

I am a lycopod in lycra

with a face like red mud

sinking into the sediments

of A-cup embarrassment, 

praying that my classmates’ chisels 

do not excavate my remains. 

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