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Friday, 15 July 2022

ONE TIME

I follow a group of kids upstairs

to smoke some weed. One swings round

and asks: why are you following us?


Another time I show up at a party

and one of the football guys looks down at me  

then sneers: what are you doing here?


I’m told that one of these kids is now

a history teacher, the other quite high up at Tesco. 

Neither would remember my face or name


yet the sting of both incidents sits

like a flame under every interaction

I’ve undertaken since then


whilst somewhere, in another notepad,

some kid whose name and face I don’t remember

sits writing of me wronging them. 


Shame. It builds nests between us.

Reaches unseen into our histories.

Tries with its talons to tear at our future.