The
Sting At twelve I learnt about The
Fall,
had rough-cut daydreams based on original sin,
nightmares about the
swarm of thin-
lipped, foul-mouthed, crab apple-
masticating girls who’d
chase me full
throttle: me, slipping on wet leaves, a heroine
in a black-and-white
cliché; them, buzzing on nicotine
and the sap of French kisses. I hated big
school
but even more, I hated the lurid shame
of surrender, the yellow miniskirt
my
mother wore the day that that man
drove my dad’s car to collect me. She called
my name
softly, more seductive than an advert.
I heard the drone of the
engine, turned and ran.
from Transformatrix
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