FLAPJACKS
- Jul 10
- 1 min read
By Bethan Parker
We baked flapjacks,
With apricot,
That night,
And took it to your boyfriend
He lived in a big house
A mansion basically,
And he was a beautiful boy, or man,
Perhaps,
Which is it really at 16?
Whilst you laughed with him
And impressed his mum
I did Jäger shots, alone,
In the corridor
From the hip flask I had in my shoe,
Of course,
Normal procedure,
For a Friday night, or any night really,
If the night called out for it.
I snuck out,
To a different town,
I don’t think you missed me.
Drank from mouths,
And avoided fights
Or maybe got hit once or twice,
I was proud of the bruise.
Like a semi-permanent tattoo.
Ended up on a couch,
It was red, and I remember,
Laughing,
As I was sick blood,
That was black, not red,
Which was a shame,
As it ruined that couch.