by Talia Randall
My teachers tell me I could really
Be Somebody, but instead of filling out
the form they gave me I dangle
my virginity from my window ledge and make
a performance from puffing on the hash
I swiped from dad’s tobacco tin.
The neighbour boys hurry
past my window. They’ve aged
sideways, teens made men by too-soon
babies. I nod down to them, beg for one
of them to shoot me down like they used to
at least that way I’ll know my place but
they’re too busy grabbing nappies and
chips from the closing shop at the edge
of the estate.
The form asks me to explain myself
in 500 words (or less), but I can’t yet figure out
if I’m more scared of being bound to this place or
being bound for someplace else.
And what if I don’t ever want to be somebody,
what if I only ever want to be myself?