First Term

(NB. Somebody important once told me, “Not everyone is ready to move out at 18”. Who is really ready to leave childhood? Who, being provided with money and family and being loved, is ready to provide?)

‘Every man to himself’.
Well I’ll bet, the Tories hit it.
Student or not,
I’m struggling. I worry.
This new life,
Its torn me apart like drapes.
And I’m the cookie that’s crumbling.
Let chips fall where they may.

I used to make friends sitting by the swimming pool
In places like Tunisia,
But its no longer a holiday destination since ISIS.
I have had heat sew itself into the beads of sweat
And sunlight stuck in my pupils,
Tell me Bolton School,
Am I excellent enough for you? Or was this new life not good enough for you,
Should I be pimping myself out on the streets
Or freeing out shards of my heart to WordPress
Or selling my soul to making this career of mine work,

They say poetry’s not in the money
But I’m after the paper in books, its the fire in me
That’s spreading flames over my tongue
And its catching onto the ends of words,
I write, and my biscuit body is burning,
I’m hard enough now that nobody can crack me in two.

And in this new life,
I do not make friends just by sitting at the pool,
I have to die twenty times,
Smile at the same person 40 times in a row in the same place,
Initiate, speak, wrap the small talk around my teeth,
Kiss them a compliment.
Say I’m something that I’m not.
Wear Gucci at school.
I’m a chicken, and humans are pulling out my feathers.

I can think of a few liars who have fake Gucci at school.
And fake Emerald rings.
That pretend they know about things,
With research bagged in their brains.
As I lock my safe,
I dash the parents and the dog and the kitchen table and the A Levels
Somewhere deep into that hole.

It’s Sunday.
And I’m alone.


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