5555

I’m tired of having a teenager for a mother. 

When I was young and squishy, 
I giggled when you’d  
squeeze with your hands. 

Chipped paint and nails, 
strands falling out of your  
too loose hair tie. 

The bags under your eyes 
grew into your favorite shade of purple. 

Your squeeze molded my hands 
thin and long, “perfect for piano” 
but, you’d cry when I tried to sing– 
 that was your talent anyway. 

Compression moved  
up my arms 
and around my chest– 
you gripped my throat. 

I still remember 
standing a whole 
ten years tall and  
your crowned canines 
looked sharp enough 
to tear out my jugular. 
 I didn’t ask you to help me 
 with my math homework again. 
  You weren’t that good at it  
  when you were in school anyway. 

I filed my teeth to points 
with your clippers 
I stole from your bathroom 
when you were still at work. 
 I stole more than that, 
 but it still doesn’t feel like enough. 

Elizabeth Terhorst

Teenagers



56

By seventeen, I was ready to  
give you bite marks 
to match the ones 
you left on me. 
 But, you still hadn’t  
 unhinged your jaw. 
 It’s hard to bite  
 when you’re still 
 being bitten. 

Eighteen, my bruises  
had started to fade, 
and the scratches 
I left on your face 
hid behind new freckles. 

I think we forgot 
that teen girls don’t get along 
 especially when you force 
 a wolf into Bo Peep’s clothing. 

Nineteen, almost twenty. 
I’m left with bleeding nubs, 
broken gums and eyebags  
your favorite color. 
 You even got me 
 to dye my hair 
 the same violent red. 

You’re ready to go another round, 
but I’m tired. I don’t have 
the same energy  
a teenager does. 

I’m tired of having a 
teenager for a mother. 
I just can’t keep up 
with your youthful angst.