Your teenage boyfriend 

is holding a bouquet of flowers 

at the end of the cul-de-sac,

because he’s run out of things to do —

 

the card is blank, it doesn’t say anything;

nobody knows what to do with you, 

tell you to try and not let things

get to you so much.

 

The girls might as well be the flowers,

they corner him at parties

            take pretty photos with him 

            and send them to you

with captions like;         look who we found.

 

The girls have been laughing for weeks,

you can’t work out why 

and when you say something

your boyfriend tells you 

those girls are nice really;

 

you’re not invited to the party

but he’ll ask if you can come? 

He loves you very much.

 

This boyfriend has got a blue car;

you touch each other up on the back seat,

because suburban life is boring,

 

you like the way it feels to be held —

 

you tell him not to tell anyone,

the last thing you need is to be called

 

                        easy

on top of everything else.

 

You tell him

you’re sorry for being moody,

he promises they didn’t do anything

at the last party and you believe him,

 

tells you again, you should come, 

he’ll ask,

 

            you’ve learnt the script so well:

 

Might do yeah. 

 

            I’m really sorry.

 

Sorry for being emotional.

Sorry for letting it get to me.

Sorry for being dramatic. 

Sorry for being depressing.

Sorry for playing up. 

Sorry for making a fuss. 

Sorry for ruining our night.

 

*

 

Moonlighting in the canteen, 

the girls put bags on their seats,

the humiliation of standing alone 

is nothing compared to pretending 

you are sunny               and ok.

 

You’re the ghost at the school gates

no one can hear you and it’s wearing,

looking like you’ve got it all under control.

 

The kick kick kick 

            of the chair, 

the things thrown over the toilet door,

the slap and run, the copying work, 

the little looks and coughs,

and whispers, and backs turned —

 

or the turning up to the front of your drama exam

to cheer you on;and you can’t say

that you don’t want them there

because you’ve froze

 

and Mr.Wilson, thinks they’re your friends.

 

Knock Knock Knock.

 

                                    Deep breath.

 

*

 

Come in!

 

The deputy head is sitting in a tiny office

a desk taking up most of the space,

 

he looks like a giant in a suit,

moustache like the end of a tiny broom,

 

he’s picking the flecks of crisps 

from a greasy, rustling bag 

licking it clean with one finger;

 

                        cheese and onion.

 

Now then,        he bins it,

            the thing is, 

it’s all a little bit complicated

all this, these school politics 

and girls will be girls, he says:

 

his tongue is picking the crips bits

out of his teeth as he tries to hide it —

 

do you think it might just be

a bit of attention seeking?

A bit of a fuss, 

all a bit over the top,

can we just ignore it?

 

Uses the term: drama queen.

 

He picks up a pen, 

begins to circle your grades in a grid

next to loads of other names —

 

the pen has a topless man

printed on the end,

the type you’d get in joke shop

 

and when he writes with it 

the little mans boxers disappear

with the heat of his hand.

 

He splutters something

about confiscating the pen

from someone in year ten,

you just thought he sat in his office all day.

 

I’m sorry it’s a bit stuffy in here, he says,

sweating, the AC is in need of urgent repair

nothing works here 

everything’s for show.

 

I think we need to let this one go, he says,

the pen revealing a huge dick. 

 

*

 

You wish that someone would call you a bitch

hit you in the face with a fist;

at least you’d have something to show for it

 

but there’s no black eyes here

it’s all hidden so well, 

us girls

always unsaid —

 

and you’re what they call

a high achiever —

you’ve got the right shoes on

and good hair, so what’s the problem?

 

*

 

You always get into the school musical.

You like it because the older kids lift you,

the costumes are like a carnival; the makeup,

and for once your armour isn’t breaking apart.

 

Your fan club 

are sat at the front 

as usual, 

they’re whispering and smiling.

 

Mr.Wilson says, it’s nice they’ve come to show their support again —

and you know, that they know

how to pull you from the top of the pyramid

without saying anything, 

 

they love to see you crumbling

following you home or hiding your things.

 

Mum has told you 

not to let them win

 

they can’t get you here —

because you know all the words

and you’re dancing,

you’ve practiced

 

you sing the big number 

like you weigh nothing —

 

and that’s when the words start

the ones that pull at your legs

and pull you apart,

 

I wouldn’t wear those 

not with an arse like that….and then the word fat. 

 

 

*

 

 

Sometimes the boys slap the books from the girls hands.

You think it’s their way of flirting and they’re always shouting.

 

The other day your tin pencil case exploded down the stairs,

it tumbled like chaos and you had to collect up all the bits

            and act like you weren’t bothered. 

 

*

 

You eat half an apple at lunchtime

walk the broadway precinct 

to buy little orange diet pills from Boots —

 

Mum doesn’t know what to do with you

when you are sat at the dinner table

staring at the food, 

 

it’s jacket potato again,

she watches you frantically scrape the insides out.

 

*

 

You are in theloos 

talking to Kimberly Clarke 

and dreading your favourite lessons,

most days you don’t make it past registration. 

 

When Mum comes to pick you up 

the girls wave from the carpark —

 

how can you explain any of this when you look

like you’ve got it together, high achiever, nice boyfriend,

on the outside you’re a display of laminated perfection 

but really you’re the broken science lab skeleton.

 

You can’t cry and when you do you always apologise. 

 

*

 

Fast forward. 

 

Someone from school 

is having a house warming;

 

they’re renting a flat 

round the corner from your flat,

because now you are grown ups,

you’ve bought wine and flowers —

 

you wonder if the same boys 

who used to slap the books 

from the girls hands will be there,

 

the one’s who nowadays, cook curries 

with finances in new kitchens,

or stands in lines at Facebook weddings;

                        same suits and reseeding.

 

You wonder if the girls will be there,

the ones who didn’t do much 

                        with themselves in the end,

most got jobs around the corner for a bit,

married people they went to Uni with.

 

*

 

He calls you crazy —

the boy you used to sit next to in school

you are standing next to the kitchen bin, 

it’s overflowing,

 

I always knew you’d end up doing something like that, he says,

you always were a bit crazy weren’t you?

 

It’s not the first time you’ve been called that

the crazy family member,

the crazy friend,            meet my crazy friend.

 

 

You’ve noticed on telly 

they save the word crazy 

for women with personalities,

            for women who are talented 

                         for women who are funny,

 

crazy is never beautiful.

 

Once this boy said to you 

if he could mix Megan’s looks

            with your personality 

it’d make his perfect girl.

 

Thanks.

 

*

 

Thanks for having me.

 

Today you are the guest poet,

stood at the front of the assembly shaking,

greeting the girls in the front row —

 

awkwardly they sit there,

school is hard you think

and you don’t miss it.

 

They’ve put posters of your face on the walls,

on the display for Women of the World Week —

 

you’re the first in the lunch queue,

because you’re wearing a red badge that says: Guest —

 

you are still so wary when a little girl hands you a tray.