Hyphenated Woman

I suppose my tip-toed, light-hearted,

forced-ballerina-days have ended

and I never got the pony named Pickles.

My friends once-were-now-are-ever-will-be skinny

but in my mirror, I’m always me.

Two-handed, I search fearfully

For another gray hair: the first’s twin

Until I’m sitting, scare-crow-messed with

a face streaked by an hour’s dose of reality.

Too tired to roller skate, play, fight, or smile

and too consumed to rest

I feign love since I need the help.

I’m so-and-so’s mom, and Mrs. what’s-her-name,

and: does-she-own-a-house?

Or will-she-have-another-kid?

I long to scream the whisper within

but can’t remember how.

I long to be the girl I wasn’t.

But I’m a woman now.