this is the one. A house
empty except for expectation, sleeping
bags and cheap cider.
It is 1997 and I am looking for my
first crush.
The kitchen is full of people I
once knew.
He is there, in the biker boots he
got for Christmas, one foot resting on his
other knee, rolling a joint.
He is forever like this, his dark blonde hair and glasses,
mechanic's dirty hands, a can of beer on the sill.
My friend is locked in the bathroom,
slicing herself with a razor, specially bought,
there's so much blood she has to borrow someone
else's jumper to cover up.
She is forever like this,
it is no use trying to unlock the door.
I'm trying to find me, or the version
of me then.
I am in the last place I look,
outside in the December air, under a tree,
much too wrapped up
to be told everything is at risk.
That I will drift away from the girl
leaning over the sink, covered in blood.
That it will be me
who has to tell them,
four years later
of the mechanic's death.
