There was this record,
that you hated and wouldn’t hear,
no matter how hard I haggled and all the battles I fought to make you see that it was our lives in a neat, sixteen track package.
I spent the last few weeks of the summer shaking and salivating,
possessed with the feeling of finally being understood,
by some distant pop “demon” (as my father found it fit to call her),
and I just wanted to show you,
that we weren’t alone.
You wouldn’t be told,
and we sat in the hallway in silence,
watching illegally downloaded American TV shows,
so that we would be too distracted to actually talk to each other.
I was beginning to think it was about more than the record,
but you wouldn’t be told,
putting your hands, your glares and other things across my lips to keep me quiet.
Dogs can play poker,
and sure, it’s intense,
but it makes a little more sense when you confess that sometimes,
two teenage girls play poker,
alone and without an audience,
maybe not even a full game
without any real idea of what they’re doing.
It’s never actually been a crime (for girls),
and maybe it’s good,
like that record was good,
and like we could be good, if we could just…
Late summer love always feels a little misguided when term begins again.
out of school uniform and out of my mind as the last of the September sun glistens and kisses my freckles,
the way you like to do,
until someone finds our secret hideaway,
and we make up a lie that nobody believes,
and I listen to that record again,
wishing that my life was an electro pop banger.
I was your chronic Candy Warhol,
curious about the butterflies that lined my stomach when we shared alcopops in an Irish bar we snuck in to.
I was stuck on you,
no matter how many times my playboy mouth said different.
You said so too, sometimes,
when you’d had too many Smirnoff Ices and had decided to be beautifully blunt.
Your fleeting kiss was ice cream, topped with honey.