After the song “When” by dodie
By Golda Grais
I wished I could be sixteen again.
It was a moment of weakness in my twin-size bed,
which I wouldn’t wish for my worst enemy, or my best friend.
At ten, I pictured my classmates watching me through the air vents
constantly. I arched my back and fetishized the color red.
I wished I could be sixteen. Again
and again, I never felt congruence with the size of my head.
At fifteen, I craved a flat chest. I resented the moment I finally bled,
which I wouldn’t wish for. My worst enemy or my best friend
might find me, and the girl looking back would inevitably upend.
At twenty-three, I gripped tight to the comforter, its worried thread.
I wished I could be sixteen again,
and I wondered if I might wake my weary pen
if I kept my eyes closed. There was a fear to look ahead,
which I wouldn’t wish for my worst enemy. Or my best friend,
who said: you were a child, once. It was going to happen.
As the sun began to rise, it dawned on me, that dread.
I wished I could be sixteen again,
which I wouldn’t wish for my worst enemy, or my best friend.
Golda Grais is a writer and artist from Chicago, Illinois, USA. Her works of prose and poetry have been previously published in Harrow House Journal, The Mourning Paper, B O D Y, and The New York Times, among others.