Emma Watkinson

I was slut shamed on Facebook by an old friend from school He was fuming that I don’t share his white fascist views He was aggressive and bitter; he called me snowflake and woke Just because I’m not a tory and a thick racist bloke He mocked me and accused me of dim witted beliefs He's one of those who reckons migrants are employment thieves My fella said shut up, fill your mouth with a gag He replied “do you know that your wife was our school slag?” I deleted and blocked him, but he continued to rant About the times when I let a boy's hands in my pants He exaggerated and said the lads were part of a queue My mate sent me a screenshot of his venomous spew How did he know about that illicit transaction, On the golf course in a bush, 'twas my first outdoor action There wasn’t a queue, maybe one quiet spectator I was hardly a live porn exhibit creator 30 years after this leafy encounter, The lad litters his page with accusatory slander He shared sordid details of rumours he...

Body in bloom but mind yet to flower Boys looked below an acceptable gaze My body stood out as my teens were awaiting I was mocked by my classmates for premature growth Bra straps were snapped by boys in the corridor Played down by the teachers, as innocent fun I was lonely and tired of the daily invasion but the attention replaced the connections I craved I found contact and company from boys past my year group I was too young to stop it from moving to touch The first one, not chosen saw this rosebud as lonely a card used to gamble his secretive plan He threatened to tell all that I had pursued him as he lay me on ground not designed for embrace The rumours went round as his friends were updated he gave details of actions he took without nod He fuelled judgement on girls who age without option ‘though our thoughts were in line with those yet to bud