A pome about dysmorphia
I hated my looks in mirrors
reckoned I was pretty ugly
until Dee mentioned, in passing,
she liked me - liked me ‘more than friends.’
‘Love’ was an unknown abstraction,
I never had a hug from Mum:
if I fell off my Hercules,
scraped my elbows or grazed my knees,
Mother never ‘kissed it better.’
No bobble hat Saturdays down
Leyton watching the Orient,
or Hackney Marshes, Dad cheering,
whether we won or lost a game.
I got, ‘that’s good,’ when telling them,
‘I’m third reserve for the county
in the English Schools’ cross-country.
Mum did not say anything - she
was occupied with Hughie Green.
The first time I saw Dee clubbing
she stole both heart and breath away -
maybe she was out of my league,
but always treated me okay.
Dee was pretty wasted, I guess,
when she said we were ‘more than friends.’
Fair play she took some new bloke home,
but suddenly I felt lovely
and no one can take that away.