iris incision, thigh and breast butcher
look down because you know its wrong
burning for her age eighteen to be turning
yearning, he’s a selfish soul
she’s still learning, earning money to pay for driving lessons
but he calls her up in college to fill tender ears with harrowing confessions
she saw the councillor and lied about what was eating away at her voice
she cried for long nights on end, trying to pretend she could handle
this mangled soul who strangled the idea of intimacy.
‘he’s older, so he should know better than me’
he bought her gifts and cigarettes
but never split the tips that she’d earnt
whilst compromising what she’d learnt at college
knowledge washed away as she wept
kept upright by cocodamol, washed down after she slept.
the city four years later still sends shivers down lone spines
edging round shopping centers and glancing around too many times.