I don’t no I don’t no I don’t no I don’t want anybody else

When the phone was enough, I took your calls at the office, on the bus, when I climbed the stairs a la Year 4 gym sessions trying to rigging rope climb, closer than Ally, faster than John, who I had a crush on the month before I left, before I knew what crushes were, what love is. I wanted to talk to him more than another person, about nothing, and I was 11. And this meant something, so Charlotte dated him.

I wasn’t astute at first, knowing when a person liked me. And I don’t know when you did, from, until, or I, you, but I log the little increments like it’s important: the first day at the edge of the Travel Section or the moment you said who you lived with.

When phones were enough, we had each other’s numbers and said, “Phone whenever you want to,” like we were family, eventually, at the craziest time to try that. But that’s what it felt like, feels like, and although my school, that first school, where we faced front for the bloodied crucifix, morning and afternoon prayer, said, “Change how you feel so you’re better,” I don’t think that’s a thing, is it? And really, like, listen when your feelings say something, or what’s the fucking point?

A few years back I found John on Facebook, but that was a pointless add, a “Remember me?” 3 message breakdown. But of course you don’t, he doesn’t. I’m mousey. Which has advantages. I eke myself out of it, trying to find that buried layer of what I am, like a pudding penny breaking teeth on its way out; not a prize at all. Screen Shot 2014-04-08 at 21.14.11

Secure Line (NaPoWriMo #23)

Date with glass screen unlike hip dip stretch mark toe thickness stagnate since and 18 years rug burn underarm detergent stains on dark tops trousers.

Biology no tell second skin cocoon shed sick coming come and 18 years bus route apply I apply rejections read acceptances similar same words in.

I am a smuge-cicle smudge circle the telephone terrorist and 18 the even people in call centre question intentions when usual they ring ring ring.

secure line

Why I Fired You (NaPoWriMo #13)

No list of tardy slips
toilet trysts
CCTV alerts
locker swaps
sick texts
staff night out
faux pas.

Didn’t shop floor skive
slag managers off
short customer change
steal stock
sleep out back
take trash
leave early
unapproved holiday
aid robbery.

Just, every sense word
thick lip spoken
when I could see tongue
was my downfall, pitfall, penance
defined my Father’s purgatory
Minister’s limbo
siphoned my blood
and sieved all the gold bits out.

Now, oxygen deprived
iron low and over.

Yes/No (NaPoWriMo #10)

You’ve said no three times
and his slip move toward you
is a board game counter
hitting the exact squares
in sequence

You’ve said no to him
on uneventful days
date days, in kitchens
Morrison’s and bed

He listened when he chose
with you in agreeal

Not now though

You’ve said no and the take back
is a non-accept
hard to admit
like Piers Morgan
hacking voicemail

You change the code

Teach Me

“I think a lot about god’s plan,” she says, “who he brings together and who he plans decimation for. It’s not something we prefigure – we don’t have the intuition of an angel or a Christian Union President or a Bible writer. We’re bet-placers, with money down on our favourite TV characters dying before season’s up, to distract us from the fact the real life people we love will be dead soon. Might be. Could. But we’ve not got money on that because we’ve not got money and we don’t want to know. But what I would know, what I’d want to, is how we took separate routes on a gameboard with only one track. It almost disproves any fate or factual, prefiguration or plan, don’t you think?”

But Jack doesn’t.