A Little Tart
Mon, 10 Aug 2015
They’re at it again – upstairs...Mum
and her so-called ‘odd-job’ man;
talk about hitting someone when
they’re down... my dad, even though
he’s away with the fairies, these days;
just spends hours, sitting in his room –
staring into space. The other night,
he was convinced there was a tiger
in there; had to move all the furniture
out and back again, all by myself,
before he’d stop his yelling. Terrified,
Time I was gone, for a few hours at least;
Mum’ll be downstairs soon – three sheets
to the wind. Lay into me for no reason
at all, other than I’m there. So I beat it –
up onto the heath. I see Sam there – him
what says he loves me. I believe him,
like crazy, I do. Met him in the queue
at the chippy; a bouncer at one of the pubs.
Always buying me things, like a pen...a Parker;
top of the range, after someone at school,
nicked mine out my bag.
I just have to do as he tells me. C’mon love,
Give me what I like...I’ll see you’re alright,
I promise.’ And he does.
It’s OK – if I shut my eyes tight...think
of something nice...like the time he bought
my dad a wheelchair; second-hand, but in good nick
Should have seen his face when we went to the park
to feed the ducks. He ate most of the bread himself,
but what the heck! And it hadn’t cost me that much
either...even though I can still feel one of them lot’s
stubble...the wet tremble of lips...still taste them
on mine...no matter how much I scrub and scrub...
still feel the sting of wet grass on my thighs...
hear them calling me ‘a little tart’. Not Sam,
you understand, because, as I say, he loves me,
he does. No – only one of his so-called mates,
and at the end of the day, I guess,
that’s what I am.