I study the faces
on the school bus.
Is it her, or her, or her?
She knows me
but hides herself
with a made-up name.
On Facebook tonight
she’ll be back,
her razor-edged jeers
about my looks,
the size of my bum,
my not-cool clothes
will make me
soak loo rolls
with blood from
self-inflicted cuts,
welcome the pain
but never confess
I’m addicted to her,
that I return
night after night,
to suffer her torments,
to punish myself
for having a mum
who’s on the game,
half crazed on drugs.
The girl on Facebook
says it’s all my fault.
I ruined mum’s life
by being born.
And I believe her.