never learnt to do long division. We failed maths

from the back of the classroom.

I didn't do sums because he'd lend me money

and wouldn't ask for it back. I was thirteen

and thought coins were like ice cream -

something the summer made us think

was necessary.

He never reminded me that I was in the red

so on my sixteenth birthday I tried to repay him.

"I'm not just a cheque you can cash

when you're feeling low and lost," he argued back.

He was too weak to survive; I found him

in the library reading The Rules of Wealth

and he said "here's the last one: I will never

get to be with you."

Boxes

"I don't have any secrets," you said

"because secrets require knowledge, and last night

you told me that I was stupid."

I smiled and started pulling out

your hair. You prised my palms

apart and said, "See, this is what secrets

lead to. Nothing good started as a secret."

I let you stay in my attic. It was the least

I could do, and you tore apart my chest

of drawers to retrieve lost papers,

stacked your boxes to make a cardboard sofa

under the window, stuck any letters

that you received on the shafts.

"There are mice in the attic," you said,

and you named them Pink, White, Brown,

although they were all albino and blind,

named respectively for their eyes, their hair,

the dirt. Yes I only wanted to kiss

other people, but I let you work that out,

doesn't that count for something? I let you keep

the attic, I didn't use it anyway. You knew

which beams were rotten, which were strong

and I heard you pacing between the eaves at night

when I was trying to sleep

next to someone else. Listen, here's another secret:

of course I meant to start the fire.

Miracle Wimp

"We are all vampires," he said, and bared

his torso, dropped his shirt. "I think

that we are all essentially worthless,"

he elaborated, and made to kiss me

but I stepped back. He almost made out

with the air for a second, but he rocked

back on his heels and said "Oh."

"I don't understand you." I said

"If you really think that we're bloodsuckers,

all sharp-toothed, ghostly, inhuman

why do you want to kiss me?" "I can't tell

you," he said, "I'm not sure why,

but I don't hate you

as much as I hate everybody else,

including myself." "That is very nice

of you," I said, but I wouldn't kiss him

and later I tried to make him go outside,

get some air, but he wouldn't. He washed

his face in the sink and dabbed my cheeks

with water, smiled wanly, curled up on my sofa

and was gone by morning.

Breakfast

is something that I don't eat,

like you're someone that I don't talk to

if I can help it. Your face is cold

damp porridge with a small swirl

of honey, tasted fleetingly,

like glimpses of the moon through clouds,

grey and oaty at night. Have a spoonful

of strawberry jam, listen to a loop

of Animal Collective, imagine

that you are so boring

that you only ever eat porridge. Imagine

a world without honey or jam,

a world where breakfast truly is

the most important meal of the day.

Put the porridge in the microwave

and leave it on for twenty seconds longer

than is recommended. You never want

to risk disaster. That's what's wrong with you,

not enough honey and not enough explosions.

Today I'm having chocolate for breakfast

Why don't you take a risk

and break open a box of weetabix?

Cadaverine Magazine 2008