She pumped her arms full of junk
until they fell off.
I might not have fully understood
back then,
but I recognised her pain.
I cared.
She was a real glossy one,
my 90s pinup.
Only real.
Living down my street.
Taking my bus.
Even attending my school,
occasionally.
I had to watch as the wheels fell off.
My unrequited first love.
Her dark nourishment
frightened me.
I didn’t smoke until I was sixteen.
But I have since been catching up.
I know she’ll fly to new skies
before I reach her.
For we were not meant to be.
Who wants to be a toyboy anyway?
Not me.
An old Chinese proverb says
"you cannot prevent the birds of sorrow
from flying over your head,
but you can prevent them
from building nests in your hair".
Can you?
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