​afterschool

I didn’t know what fuck meant until I looked it up and wrote it down on a slip of paper then folded it like I was holding a newborn and I put it in the pocket on my prepubescent tit, my school uniform logo sewed onto it. I protected it like gold and hid it like a dirty secret.

I didn’t know that fuck meant trouble until my mother scrubbed the uniform with her hands like she usually does. She was squatting in front of the washing machine which she didn’t like using, her hands were slick with soap and off-coloured water. With wet fingers she plucked out the slip and this part I made up because I was watching a cartoon on T.V. I didn’t actually see her. In the laundry room she was scolding me but I think she was worried, really. She showed me the slip and asked me who gave it to me. Or how I know this. I told her an older student handed it to me without saying anything, she asked what the name was. I don’t know. She asked about appearance. An older girl, I told her. She had two long pigtails and I think she was fifteen. She mumbled something about not doing things like this and crushed the slip between her wet fingertips and it dissolved in the soapy water so it was really a done deal. I sulked back to the T.V. (I don’t know why I was sad). There was an advertisement playing something about STDs so I just switched it off.

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This is a prose poem. I’ve recieved comments on the subreddit r/writingfeedback that this is not poetry. So, I don’t know how it will be recieved here. All I will say is that don’t engage or provide feedback unless you are familiar with experimental poetry.