I’ve no shortage of boys
wanting me,
after me,
telling me
I’m the golden sun
and bloody silver moon.
In Year Seven
Keith Woods
passed me a note
in science
that said
‘Your reelly cute!’
and I let him
kiss me with
his mouth open
more than once,
his tongue
far too flappy
for my liking.
In Year Eight,
Michael Mensah
asked me out,
and I said yes,
and spent the next three weeks
battling with him
while he fought to
get my bra off.
In Year Nine
Noah Stein
told everyone
I was hot,
and I liked that,
and when he put his
hand up my skirt
I didn’t say no.
Not the first time anyway.
And this year,
even though I’m still in Year Ten,
a load of sixth formers have been
chatting me up after school,
messaging me,
saying stuff that would make Mum’s eyes water.
But it’s all the same.
It’s all about them.
What they want.
What I can give.
Down the youth offenders’ place
Nicu Gabor
talks to me
and listens to me
and wants to do things for me.
His voice dances
with words that are all messed up
but actually mean something,
and whenever we’re together
he makes me
laugh
and laugh,
sometimes until my ribs hurt.
Nicu:
he’s more than quite nice.