She said
Because in the kitchen
Over the fold-up table
With worn plastic chairs strewed
On a floor made of
Mock-tiles peeling from
The ground
Her parents shrieked at each other
Louder than her baby half-brother did at
His grumbling belly.

She said
Because that dog she loved to bits
With her matted brown-white fur and flat face
Had to live with her grandma next door
Because her step-dad’s allergic
To the little shedding strands
That can’t help but fall
And stick helplessly to
The sofa.

She said
Because in that catholic drama club
The only boy without a girl
Was called a fag
And she’d be too
If she said anything
To anyone
Especially those “devout” friends
With their devout parents
And their weekly
Church services.

She said
Because they didn’t teach the topic
In that school
Where everyone looked the same
Unless the uniform
—Skirts for the girls, trousers for the boys
Blazers for the both—
Didn’t fit quite right on an
Unfortunately round body
(Because to be fat, genetically or otherwise
Was in fact a sin.
Just ask anyone.)

She said
Because the only thing left
She knew how to love
Was the cool burn of a razor,
Baths filled with red water,
And scars that stood with her
Like a dark friend
Like her shadow.

I’ll never write a love song
She said
Because she hadn’t once dreamt
Of meeting someone
Who made her question
Why she would never want
To write a love song.