Teenage Girls Upon Reflection

At a certain age,
we start to sound like our mothers
when we talk on the phone.
There is a certain
rough richness to our voices,
as if our throats are seasoned
with late-night glasses
of cheap red wine
from a teacher's salary.
We sound tired,
even through our excitement
of who said what and when to who.
Our lips strain and flutter at the corners
when we try to hold a smile
for a moment too long,
and our hair is never perfect.
We are slowly becoming
the next generation
of midnight coffee drinkers,
hunched like question marks
over our textbooks
while our brothers and sisters
are already asleep.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem