The Game

Fifteen.
Nervous,
naive,
knee length skirt.
At a desk,
next to a boy I’d spoken to,
maybe once or twice.

Then he is joined,
by a friend I’ve never met,
and they engage,
in a game,
he normally saves,
for just before bed.
I try to look away,
but he tells me to look.

They tell me I am playing,
and reach for the woman
who lives where I do not dare to share.
She is sleeping,
and doesn’t know the rules.
They grab her from her cotton castle,
and I am in the game,
bound to lose.

We are both frozen,
unable to run,
afraid of what we’ve done,
or haven’t,
to be more accurate,
and when the boys are done,
we are numb,
and full of questions,
that we will never ask.

We will never play again,
we are not sure if we even did,
or if we were just sat,
a lone, broken battleship,
at the mercy of invasion,
from a boy “just being a boy”.


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