Flinch (“Mama”)

I can’t really write poetry. But here’s a taste of my anger-fuelled teenaged angst. Inspired by an unfortunate encounter with a friend who sorrily regretted his life decisions afterwards.

“Jumpy,” you said I was,
And squeezed my hand
With “quaint” affection.
True, I shy away from
What moves; quick, dark,
For they tend to strike.

Did you miss my intent
In the way I
Fled from your touch
When you reached out quickly
To grab me, press
Your lips onto mine?

“What are you doing?!”, reply
By a rough grab.
“Cut it out!” I said.
You did not understand.
“Why?” you whine, touch,
Embrace me softly,