We both lay down; mud stuck to my t-shirt like black tar.
He whispered in my ear, ‘I want you, treacle.’
I looked at the stones, the green moss
creeping over them like furry caterpillars.
The mill my mother worked in stood
in the distance like a Northern Buckingham Palace.
Guilt and shame engulfed me,
stacked inside like a Jenga.
Afterward, we left the woodlands.
Climbed the steps that were old
And broken like digestive biscuits.
Twigs were brittle and snappy
beneath my worn out trainers.
That night I didn’t kiss my Wham poster.
I didn’t practice open mouth kissing
at the top of my arm. I looked in the
mirror and traced my finger around
the pomegranate bite on my neck.
