Ugly Until

A pome about dysmorphia – I will rewrite this in a few months when it’s gone cold but not restrict it to 8 syllables per line – it is (in this case) too restrictive

Ugly Until

I hated my looks in mirrors

reckoned I was pretty ugly

until Dee mentioned, in passing,

she liked me – liked me ‘more than friends.’

‘Love’ was an unknown abstraction,

I never had a hug from Mum:

if I fell off my Hercules,

scraped my elbows or grazed my knees,

Mother never ‘kissed it better.’

No bobble hat Saturdays down

Leyton watching the Orient,

or Hackney Marshes, Dad cheering,

whether we won or lost a game.

I got, ‘that’s good,’ when telling them,

‘I’m third reserve for the county 

in the English Schools’ cross-country.

Mum did not say anything – she

was occupied with Hughie Green.

The first time I saw Dee clubbing

she stole both heart and breath away –

maybe she was out of my league,

but always treated me okay.

Dee was pretty wasted, I guess,

when she said we were ‘more than friends.’

Fair play she took some new bloke home,  

but suddenly I felt lovely

and no one can take that away.