Slap crunch -
it was just me, nose diving into pavement cracks
before the three women in aprons and designer shoes

+ a push chair
laughed me off the back street.

They hold their futures in the backs of their heavy thighs.
Breath harder -

Four years ago I was sixteen, three blond haired girls
called me 'slag' in the bus station at seven oh ten PM.
They liked cigarettes and skipping school, I didn't
like running

But I had to. Scream louder -
I wanted to tell some of these people to watch the sun-clipse
and understand love is a cheesy kind of asthma

with a lower survival rate, it has a faucet that won't turn off
even if you close your eyes and wish real hard
while crossing your fingers
and banging your heels together,

people will seem pointless when hose pipes are banned again.
I wanted to tell them that they'll lay in bathtubs,

wash their faces in sinks, pour skimmed milk over cornflakes and go to work
but will not know why.

I wanted to say this on a loud speaker, into billboards, down telephone wires,

click thoughts into place, say - maybe you can laugh at my torn jeans
and old shoes
all the way through ally ways and exam rooms,
to family planning centres and counsel houses.

I wanted to explain that when I stand behind protective glass
and touch the pane with the pads of my fingers, when my fast lungs open up
I can feel something

integrated, I wanted to ask
if they could to,

when they look me in the eye, when they shout bruises on my skin,
when they have underage intercourse or weekly fucks in the park,
when they laugh at others dress sense,  when they say 'I hate you Mum',
when they see me again, with a reversed role and I do not look smug,
                 
                      even though I want to.


But as my lips parted, so did they.

I guess
they had lives to lose.