Boarding School

When they left me

My nine year old heart

Burnt a hole in my chest

And part

Of my stomach

Twisted over.

How can they say they know what is best

When the pain in my eyes

Stings like nettle rash

And the invisible rope

That tightens around my throat

Makes every breath

Feel as though it could be

My last?

Unfamiliar hands

Push me towards a bed

With a dirty pink cover that smells

Of stale tea

And overcooked cabbage.

Six new faces watch

As I put on new pajamas

That are scratchy and too tight.

I cannot speak tonight

For fear I might

Cry.

I once begged to be here,

Blinded by Enid Blyton fantasies of

Midnight feasts and pillow fights.

But now, alone in the dark,

The dream is dashed

As cold fear

Creeps up my legs.

Five a.m.

Awake and wet,

Climbing out of bed,

Finding cold stone steps

And no mother.

Knocking on the locked door,

Coughing as a cloud of smoke

Curls up my nose and the woman

With the yellow fingers and long grey hair

Rubs me roughly with a stripy towel.

She rattles my bed

As she strips the soaked sheets

And my shame

Is visible 

To a dozen eyes

At dawn.

(London, April 2007)