I was a hand grenade of a girl
vacuum packed into a dress
that bound my body
like a bandage staunching a wound.

My arms were cinched in tourniquets
of tulle, my throat choked in a rage
of lace. I’d hacked my hair into chaos,
kept it ragged and short, kept my fists

clenched in the fuselage of my lap. My eyes – 
two foxholes. No light escaped. My lips
stretched across my face like a trip wire.
The man with the camera said, you can do better.

Give me a smile. I set my mouth
into the look I’ve kept all these years.
That’s still me in the photo,
waiting to pull the pin.