i was 17 when you told me you drank bleach as a kid.
it ate up your insides and you were supine
in a hospital bed for ages, feeling
alien and special all at once.
you met me on a train, i put you first
because you tapped me on the shoulder, saying in australian:
you’re pretty, wanna get coffee?
it was washing day and i still thought i was a girl,
didn’t know what you saw
in a stained pink floyd t-shirt and frizzy hair
but said: sure.
later it became dark and we got those
good old no. 1 pancakes (r.i.p.)
and sat up in the gnarled fingers of an albert park tree
where you looked down on me
for not believing in ghosts.
my beaten dr martens got drenched
the rainy night we walked and you said
you were an expert at climbing buildings,
but wouldn’t demonstrate.
you worked at new world stocking shelves,
i’d come share your lunch breaks
and be impressed by your latest tattoo —
you wanted to kiss me
but i never let you.
once you realised our hand-holding
wasn’t going anywhere,
it didn’t take long for you to ghost me
you went back to australia, eventually
and took your spectral expectations
of: then what? 😉
so i guess i have you to thank, then,
for teaching me
i’m just not that into men.
