You’re 16 going on 30. A teen drama queen meltdown happening all over your mother’s hands.
Only your eyes will remain intact, cold and unwavering. Staring ahead, bored and unmoved.
While you struggle to break free with your cheap hairspray, white boots, and cigarette hanging on glossed lips, the rest of the world is oblivious. Joggers run by, the steamy buses charge past to town, circling magpies soar with a quiet menace above the park, as a woman child roams.
From my car, from my age now, I see you, walking down the dimly lit road. Like the pied piper, but your followers are boys, who eagerly, grubbily pursue you, As you pursue them.
In dark rooms and street corners, bus shelters and behind the old cinema. Tantalizing them with your tawdry glamour: long blonde blow-dried hair and thin, long legs.
The city prepares for slumber inside its warm houses, while you turn on the charm, ruling supreme, the leader of the pack. The girl with the most brass. I drive on by, your dead eyes averted from my gaze.
Some days after, the rails collapse, you go off like a piece of dynamite which was been smoking for some time. Firing, cracking, smelling of sex( or the promise of). Your scrawny neck covered in love bites telling tales of brazenness. The teachers get your worst that day, you scream and you shout, throw chairs, then they throw you out.
Sauntering off with your fan club in tow, all male of course, you wave goodbye to the group of girls from your class at the window. They laugh amongst themselves. Inside a small drip of jealousy, pushed aside by your streetwise pride. So…you get off, so your mum can mop you up.
Jane Bellis © 2008
previous published in Slacker magazine