I don’t get along with myself.
Never fully have.
I wear it like a badge of honour now, I guess.
I wouldn’t answer my name to the register
and cried when my mum forgot to wave.

Seeing me alone at the wrong side of the ground,
Mrs Rhodes said, and not kindly, “You always were a bit different, David.”
Not sufficiently, just having an American dad, or being summer-born,
unready.

Not the worst at being bullied,
I shouldn’t complain.
I’ve not been raped, but the trombone teacher
put his hand down my trousers once,
to show
how I should push air.

I could probably take it up again,
but I don’t get along with myself,
so I’m not sure I’d want to.

There are other things I’d hoped to do:
Write poetry or stories, but instead,
I’m always moping or sad about something –
something small or something big, out there in the world.
I still think I’m right, which makes it worse,
and it’s not pleasant to be around.
I’m always worrying about it.
I don’t smile properly in photos.

When I punched Mark Teamby in the nose,
he ran crying to his mum, dripping blood.
It wasn’t good, but the council house kids made me,
and Ivan who was older and supposed to be my friend,
shoved me in as they chanted, encircled, so I had to fight back.

I think about these things too much,
I can’t just let them go.

And I don’t like the adults here,
with their stupid big cars.
They blame the wrong person and say,
“It’s just what we used to call summer,” and it’s not fun to be around.
Maybe they should work on that.

And then I thought, what if I don’t love you either?

But there is sing-song in your voice.
You’re just on the sofa.
Your dog is with you.
You’ve been on the moors, collected bilberries, seen the sun set –
It was lovely. Did I see it?