Invisible Ink

You were pushed you into the pool. Aged 10, fully clothed and nascent.

You were given a dictionary that had two number ones branded in exactly equal height on the front cover. Nascent was written in invisible ink, hidden behind a first page of Happy Birthday in 11 different languages.

You added an extra page to the dictionary and dotted it with fragments of an imagined language.

You still held hands, jumped over cracks, darted around ladders. You laughed at being an unlucky age.

You wished there were two more hours every day for sleeping. You would sleep happy if it matched your age. If all was co-ordinated with the emerging stripes of you.

You spent three hours trying out faces that did not fit before going out to party only to be home again in less time than it took to get ready. You blotted parts of you and used mirrors with secret abandon. You lost track of time and numbers.

You walked around the house in a dotty bikini to perfect an air of nonchalance. You made jokes about not being able to replicate the heat and faked strokes in the water.

You settled on a version of you that added swirls and waves to the stripes. You swayed and laughed and time and words became dots.

Invisible Ink

You wondered what the opposite saying for puffing out your chest was. You laughed and sucked yourself back inside in with your movement. You counted time.

You filled hidden scrapbooks with remnants of the desired you waiting to be added to, bonded together with glue and layered meaning.

You rehearsed your words although they were always reliable.

You went to have the time of your life.

Your chest was concave, they counted until they lost track of time.

You were pushed in again, you were brought out as if nascent.

You left only a bright red lipstick mark where the breath of your mouth should have been.

Perhaps you mouthed the words in gurgled silence.