inkling

twenty

The word slips through the strands of hair hanging around her shoulders, a bright, vibrant blue. 

It brands itself on the circle of silver curled through her nostril. 

It tangles itself amongst the scruffy, faded bracelets tied around her scrawny wrist. 

Scribbles itself inbetween the songs lyrics painted on her battered converse. 

It hides in the pupil of her eye, the hollow of her throat, the curve of her waist. 

It blazes from the front of her baggy tshirts, threads into the rips of her jeans. 

It is the word that slips into the crevices of everybody's mind when she saunters into school.

Blood-red lips silent as she surveys us. 

It is what she always will be, the word never spoken but always known. 

Different.