Teenage Whore

These are the sounds of my home town.
Thirty different kinds of footsteps.

This is the history of my home town.
Written in a diary in a dirty caravan.

These are the people.
Windowpanes squeaking under stroking fingertips.

Everyone meets themselves dead.
A sexual corpse, abandoned.
Two teeth prominent in a desiccated head.

You can fascinate yourself.
You are already dying.
You are already an adulteress.
You have already been here, making
thirty different kinds of footsteps, mouth wide open like a hole.

I have the face of my home town.
Covered by a cage, with holes and holes beneath.
My wanton limbs folded double in a cupboard, hidden.
A slut and a criminal both.

It’s not so bad, it’s what’s written on the cupboard walls.