I always make sure not to walk in a style that would be attractive to a rapist. Like walking wavy, definite no-no or looking lost or head in the clouds whimsical, or trusting. Therefore I’ve developed quite the masculine gait, you can hear me coming a mile off clomp clomp clomp steely eyed, fists clenched, ready for action (not that type mr rapist)  I remember breathing a sigh of relief when I reached puberty; I would no longer be potential prey for peados. It was a sigh of relief but also I suppose a goodbye to childhood, those halcyon days which were so beautifully fragile more so because of the potential proximity to utter horror. I had survived them! My innate suspicion of mankind and men particularly had served me well. My lifelong phobia of dying wasn’t in vain, all those bedtime tears about the endlessness of death, the lonesomeness of it all, they steeled me for the challenge of living, of ‘stayin alive’.  But there’s always that urge, a swaying on the platform towards the tracks. A careless dash across a busy road a wave of rage and the self destruct button itching to be pushed.

the little people get stepped over the humble shat upon the slow walkers and sincere talkers like my darling dearest mum i wish i could be more like you instead of this hard shell empty and brittle  i froze my kindness  a worthless commodity in hell

sandy sits home every evening hoping her man will come home in time to eat the dinner she made him keep her company, don’t like being alone he’s a darling if he hasn’t been drinking  but the whiskey’s got hold of him hard in the meanwhile she’s sitting and thinking  in the meanwhile he’s breaking her heart they used to go down to the pier some nights take a walk in the salty night air sway to & fro to the old tunes he’d say ‘i love the wind in your hair’ sway to & fro to the old tunes he’d say ‘i love the wind in your hair’ sandy stays home every weekend even now that her man’s long gone she looks through all their old photos in her memory they’ll always live on