A tale I wrote
Your head is made up
of a bag of Turkey Twizzlers.
You have the skin
of a fried egg on a burger bun
and the fingers of a bag of chips.
I picture you down corridors,
blazer accidentally tucked
down the back of your trousers,
eyes over your shoulder,
tongue shoved in your backpack.
There is nothing I can teach you.
I found you sat on a pile of books,
a thumb up your nose,
the moon predictably shining
on the gaps between your curls
as if to say You deserve to be a poem.
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