by Cole Beauchamp

You’d come flying at me like Sonic, swinging fringe I tried so hard to cut well, little arms barely overhead when you stretched to get dressed, but then you started noticing your scuffed trainers and jam sandwiches, started counting the bottles in the bins and wagging your press-on nails, all the sophistication that £5.49 could buy, but I promise that once I am out I will make it up to you, birthday parties with balloons, glossy cake, floofy-bowed presents, I will book Gravity with its bone-jarring music where you can glide bowling balls down alleys complete with guard rails.