It took two looks to see him –

snapped head and loose jaw, silent

moviewise. The boy who broke me in,

my head, my skin, up, said ‘a break-

down would do you good’. The change
snuck him past me, but: same flesh,

same stride. I called; we spoke.

The quick, smiling chat of two

folk who knew inside each other’s

mouths, but not heads. I looked hard.
The difference wasn’t clear, and then

it was. – The lipring that turned

his pout sullen, hot. The jangle

of earrings I’d buried my face in

as he steel-tracked my heavy
shoulders. The scaffold. The sharp,

shocking stud in his busy tongue.

All gone. In the four years since

he hauled me into a lift, with

‘You wanna make out?’, he’d pulled 
out every metal sign, become

employable, less obvious. I’d paid

ten quid in Camden for my first, made

more holes each time I got depressed.

Got inked. He asked, ‘So what do you do now?’


‘Piercings’ was first published in Visa Wedding (Stewed Rhubarb, 2012)