Washing-up Hands and Disgruntled Underarms

Scars won't fade fast And in the summertime, the one on her cheek Is bright as paint, is red as lips. Her face refuses to be quiet: she wishes her scar was white as milk gentle; Godly; girly. She wishes she was holding hands. She wishes she was sharing kisses. She wishes she was Audrey Hepburn. Milky. No, darling, the taste in her mouth is spicy and sour And her palms sweat like butter in the heat. No, darling, that girl's a bad bad one, That girl's night inside. She's not quite real yet. She's no white hart. She's no milk-weeping Virgin statue.