Nora worried about her neck. Or so I heard.
I read about her. I didn’t actually read what she wrote.
Honestly I’ve been worried about mine ever since.
Then, I was at the peak of womanhood.
Or so I thought.
Now, am I?
I read an article. Then another. Maybe four more.
Felt good. Felt bad. Felt indifferent.
Hard to keep track.
Lots of thoughts.
Lots of anxiety.
Drew didn’t get work done.
That’s a relief.
Stopped wearing makeup because I wanted to be recognizable.
Alicia did that.
Everyone cheered.
Added some makeup and gots lots of personal attention.
Is that real? Are they fake? Am I pretty? Do I care?
Yes.
In fact, I do care very much.
Vanity runs deep.
My skin is thick, but not enough to insulate my mind from
The haters.
Especially not the one that lives in my head.
It’s clear.
My skin, that is.
Until it’s not.
Am I still going through puberty?
Nope.
Very much matured.
Very much still picking at pesky pimples.
Is my body working for me?
Or am I working for it?
Only time will tell.
I guess it already is.
My poor neck.

Originally published in Objects Things Stuff: Messy Bits We Carry Around (2025, Dark Thirty Poetry Publishing).