Eris

The press of

some boy’s

Levi rivets

on my hips

and liking it.

School girl poppets,

Playboy scraps

thrown in our faces.

A policeman

asking Eris

the colour of the

wanking man’s pants.

Fleshy pink she laughs.

Mysteries at 14.

Eris knows men

with fast cars.

Fast hands.

We fast forward

to forget most bits.

Never question

why we are taken,

we never

speak of it.

Why bother,

my mother’s drunk

with the man

whose daughter

Eris is.

Mysteries at 14.

I’m told

no alcohol.

There’s nothing

worse

than teenage girls

disgracing themselves.

Stay nice.

My father’s charcoal

drawing

on our wall

of the woman

with the

pointy breasts.

She is Eris’s mother.

Double standard

mysteries at 14

Eris is taller than me,

blocks my way

with her back

as I try to leave.

Stay she says.

Scent  of lemon

on her blonde hair,

caught up in a ponytail.

I flinch

as she flicks

it to one side,

like a stamping palomino.

Strands caught

by the butterflies

pinning

the gold studs

to her ears.

Blonde in my mouth,

lemon on my tongue,

best friend,

girlfriend crush.

She turns,

dissolute and desolate.

Eris says we’re enjoying it,

all the mysteries at 14