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Elizabeth Goodall

My boss had a goatee,
explorative hands
and a glint in his smile
when he said
I was beyond my years

empty bloodshot eyes
and thirsty lips;
my ignorance was his bliss.

He asked me if I tasted sweet.
I laughed it off
for free beer and six quid an hour.

I don’t even like beer.
Why did I let him touch me?