of course you didn't care about my midnight typing.
the poems i wrote on the insides of my elbows.
why would you need any more than you have?
the red folder stitched tight with verses.

teacher said "girls like that don't matter
when girls like you are in my class."
"then teacher, why do you keep that folder?
up above too high, so i can't reach?"

i hate that folder with all my lungs
i was his pet, his wonder, his daughter.
one day, a Friday, a lie-day,
the distance between us got shorter.

i grabbed that fat gross metaphorical heart
i ate its contents, i felt it digest
i choked myself once (just to see how it felt)
and dear darling old teacher did the rest

now i write poems on his bathroom mirrors
when i break in through the window at night
teacher longs for his favourite pupil, he longs
for her small legs wrapped around him tight

i feel the wrote heart
beating inside me
(my stomach lining
echoes)

with
the words
she used.