Coming home on an evening in august, cool air puffing up in the sleeves of your shirt.
You were always a neurotic kid, too young for paranoia but this is how it goes-
nobody likes me everybody hates me, chewed fingertips, shredded bottle labels,
nothing tidy
and wanting to go under the bedsheets to feel safe.
We like to pretend that we have magical powers, that we are somehow special,
and we play in the rainfall of sycamore leaves and seeds,
weather that lets you know that everything will end soon,
a slap to the face.
You wonder what you would look like with shorter hair but
could never part with
what you've grown.
You never quite realise how much there is ahead of you.
