Girl alone grips the razor blade
between forefinger and thumb
as if it were a pencil, a fork, a quarter
about to be dropped
into the coin slot of a pay phone
(just before dialing the suicide hot-line).
Girl afraid grips the razor blade
as if she were prepared to slice,
until she remembers her birthday
fifteen years ago
blow out the candles and make a wish.
I want to be a princess
when I grow up.