I want to be SH when I grow up*.
This love looks set to grow extremely tall.
I chart its weekly progress on the wall
the way my mum made pencil marks above
my sister’s head and mine. I’ve called it love
since it began, but now I have some proof -
infatuation stops before the roof
while love climbs bravely up to bash its head.
The bleeding starts. No wonder hearts are red.
* Maybe not really. But I would like to write like her.