V. Press is very very excited to share the publication of grown girl by Eleni Brooks!
“The essence that makes grown girl stand out can’t be distilled down to just one thing. Here, a confident voice, striking lines, unusual images and light touch all work together to create an interesting and insightful read. More than that though, this pamphlet is very relatable, very re-readable and casts both familiar and unfamiliar experiences in a new light.”
Sarah Leavesley, V. Press Prize judge
N.B. We can no longer sell to the EU. Any other international customs/duty charges are the buyer's responsibility.
Sarah Leavesley, V. Press Prize judge
“Eleni is clever, subtly witty and honest to no fault. When poetry is this relatable, it reminds you how sharing your experiences can make another feel understood; although it’s shared and not the same, it makes you feel like you’re there again, but this time you’re not alone. Very powerful poetry.” Jemima Hughes
Grown girl is very raw and very hopeful.
Winner of the V. Press Prize for Poetry 2025-26
ISBN: 978-1-0682701-1-6
32 pages
R.R.P. £7.50
A sample poem may be enjoyed below.
BUY grown girl NOW using the paypal options below.
N.B. We can no longer sell to the EU. Any other international customs/duty charges are the buyer's responsibility.
Pink Vaseline
It is a stepping stone
for children yet to bleed, it is a treat
my mother told me, when you get your period
you can wear lipstick, no one expected this
child of baggy tees and puppy fat to be a woman
so soon, so when I bled at the barbeque, I hid
it till we got home, stuffed my floral shorts with sandpaper
loo roll, went back to being the goalie
hushed mothers whispered in the months that followed
only nine years old Lydia’s daughter
already wearing bras Lydia’s daughter
fills night pads in the day Lydia’s daughter
only nine, already bruising and not yet
ripe, busy with sibling bath times and baby slings
the promised lipstick slipped my mind
he preferred lip gloss
balms that tasted of watermelon
topped with glitter, left flickering
on his cheeks, my girlhood was fingered lips
rose-tinted and moist
a slathering of woman over cracked skin
priding myself on the fecundity of hips and nipples but
betrayed by an empty pouch of potential
pregnancy, the age of my mother
on the days that she breastfed me
I wear dungarees and apply for mastectomy
funding, a back-pained flattener of daydreams
a creature more like her father than she’s ever been
today I bought my girlhood in a tin, and it reminded me
that I am not a woman
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