Ghost of her
She still haunts those streets
her best friends and her walked
every day for seven years
on their way to school,
dressed in green with kingdom keys
sewn onto their golden crest.
Past yellowing council flats,
eight o’clock dog walkers,
occasional drifts of cannabis,
the scent of left-over banana
in their lunch boxes.
x
She still haunts those streets
on light summer nights.
The pavement is her runway,
white Converse are stilettos
clicking under streetlamps.
Hoping her favourite English teacher
might notice her out of knee-socks,
in boy-friend jeans and red sunglasses.
She counts the beeps on her fingers.
x
Each headlight flash a camera
to pout or twirl her hair for.
Body sways possessed by music,
sipping vodka lemonade
from a daisy water bottle.
x
She still haunts that one street.
Her Leavers Day T-shirt
signed with fading sharpie names
lost in the mess under her bed.
Now she walks like she’s see-through.
The peach of her skin,
the gold in her hair
washed by rain
from the brooding sky.
x
Zipping up her hoodie tight
she cowers as the car horns screech
like gunshots in the dark.
The Suburban Dream
I plant plastic hydrangeas
in artificial grass.
Blue paint seeps onto my fingers,
I rub them on my pinny
to keep my sundress clean.
x
These white picket fences
stand like metal bars,
protecting me from outside.
It’s safe here, he says.
And I always listen.
x
Cherry pie burns golden.
The timer is a siren,
it blares through the window.
Yesterday I lost my oven gloves,
bare hands will do today.
x
Metal scorches my skin
while I plate the perfect pie,
fingertips melting like wax.
Nothing a coat of pink
nail varnish won’t fix.
x
He’ll be here soon.
I twirl to the bedroom,
spray my hair in the mirror.
Dab some rose blush
with my fists until my cheeks
x
are sore and swollen
and beautiful.
I put on his favourite record
x
and I dance
and I dance
to the suburban dream.
x
Just business
I lug through the rain
and think of the heat in Bordeaux.
Load up your Instagram,
rain drips down my screen
blurring your face into pixels.
x
I smile at those dark eyes
I’ll see in three days. My twenty-first.
That blonde girl beside you
makes me stop, catch my breath.
Orange gin glass in her hand. Playing God.
x
The number nine chugs up my street
I tuck my phone to my chest,
scavenge for my change, take a seat.
I picture her alluring blue eyes,
She’s older. Still beautiful.
x
It’s my birthday in three days
and I’m off to work. Of course,
you’re in France working as well
but without the plastic hangers
and whining customers.
x
Just a camera on your wrist.
A girl by your side.