It’s a long-forgotten feeling, teenage tainted, like angst and acne and period pains.
A shiny knife-edge in which you can see yourself distorted.
Fingers hovering near an electric socket
That last drink that should have stayed in the bottle. Screw the cap on tight.
Hyper-vigilance over a cup of tea.
Combing through words he throws away, searching for meaning.
It’s called a crush because it’s not comfortable, because it’s too much.
There’s no room to breathe.
Like a crowd mangling the railings trampling on flesh and bone.
Trying to escape.