We always break up at the end of August.
The Olympics are over, I throw up in the canal.
It’s always September after we break up.
Crying with my sister on the Ikea sofa,
All Saints sing Never Ever, girls wear cow-print coats.
We always break up at the end of August.
In the back seat I don’t tell my dad or brother.
In Manchester, I don’t tell any of my five housemates.
It’s always September after we break up.
Children keep falling off their scooters,
I get caught throwing my cactus out the window.
It’s been ten years since the end of August.
This year my friend chose not to fly to Canada
with her boyfriend, she’s going home instead.
We always break up at the end of August –
where she’s from, September is the start of Spring.