My first kiss,
was a tragedy.
Not Greek,
or Shakespearean,
just us.
I shook,
inside your guilty grasp,
not your niece,
but just as nice as Catherine.
You tell me twice,
you can’t believe the mess,
as you gaze,
from the bridge,
where people like us end up,
enjoying the view,
before we throw ourselves off.
Sweet sixteen,
your precocious princess.
You confess,
hands down where heaven rests,
and learns to love your clumsy caress.
I meow to the melancholy melody,
of each mea culpa,
waiting for you to decide,
if you are my lover,
my father,
or my teacher.
You didn’t mind the games I’d played,
you told me I could toy with you,
and I’d be safe,
from the harsh, harmful hands,
of my previous playground peril.
You tutored me in trouble,
I took notes on a tongue I didn’t know how to use,
as the narrator got weary of our weakness,
and abandoned the script,
on the tired theatre floor.
Bad behaviour,
on the Brooklyn docks.
You moved me,
with Marlowe,
and Miller,
then mauled me,
which my adolescent adoration overlooked.
Lust,
too much.
Going where it shouldn’t,
perversely predictable,
because men like you,
love girls like me,
forever.
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Sincerely, Jennifer x 
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