We both lay down; mud stuck to my t-shirt like black tar.

He whispered in my ear, ‘I want you, treacle.’

I looked at the stones, the green moss

creeping over them like furry caterpillars.

The mill my mother worked in stood

in the distance like a Northern Buckingham Palace.

Guilt and shame engulfed me,

stacked inside like a Jenga.

Afterward, we left the woodlands.

Climbed the steps that were old

And broken like digestive biscuits.

Twigs were brittle and snappy

beneath my worn out trainers.

That night I didn’t kiss my Wham poster.

I didn’t practice open mouth kissing

at the top of my arm. I looked in the

mirror and traced my finger around

the pomegranate bite on my neck.