She is hundreds of books, lined out on shelves,
In order of size, colour and author.
She is a pair of skinny jeans in a heap on the floor,
Ditched for a dress; defiant of fashion.
She is a mirror turned to the wall, and a sigh in the morning,
Saying, "I guess that'll do".
She is the loudest, and she is the quietest,
She's seen, and she's heard, and at other times not.
She is the tea at the bottom of the cup,
Inexplicably left- a habit learned from her brother.
She is the volume that has to be even,
And the control which is turning it up.
She is the girl, just a girl of fourteen.
Trying to make her way in the world.
She is me.