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.