Picking

I blow smoke rings into the air.

Without turning around I know

Nicu’s there,

ketchup in his hair,

and he’s looking at me.

I pretend not to sense him,

concentrate on my fag.

I pick

at a thick, hard scab on my hand.

I just know he’s not

    looking away

or curling up his nose

or going to say, ‘Don’t pick, Jess, so ranking,’

or do anything else to

make me feel

disgusting

– which I am

    sometimes.

Not to him

though.

Not ever.

And

I don’t know why

but

it doesn’t feel good.

I keep waiting for him to see through me

or just see me

as I am,

and when he does

he’ll be pretty

disappointed.