it was fireworks and it was scotch lifted from craig’s mums special cabinet and it was the knowledge that she knew she knew and he would not soon shift the bruising and it was sat on the kerb passing the bottle and it was telling your mother you had gone to meet a girl at the cinema and it was her smile and she knew but she was post-war helpless and it was holding hands in the puff of smoke cold and it was him resting his head on your shoulder while the cheap shit booze stung the teeth you’d brushed twice before leaving and it was two girls and a lad walking past and calling you a faggot and it was barely dodging a rock then and it was waiting until they had long gone before admitting you could probably take them and it was the end of the bottle and it was the end of the display and it was the end of the night and it was four hands becoming eight as your house grew nearer and it was warm and it was clean and I wish it was what it was more than what it actually was but then it was your father finding out at work from the father of the cunt who threw the rock and it was a smashed radio and it was a broken collarbone and it was fresh bruises for mum and it was never leaving this fucking house again and now it’s not anymore and will never be again and I wish it was