Poem Written from the Perspective of the Boy Who Works at the Cell Phone Stand in the Mall

I have
a fascination
with girl hair.
Pretty girls.
When they walk by
I try to breathe in
real deep and catch their
scent.
Then I try to memorize them.

I used to take them home and write
them down, but Mom caught me one
time.
You can write thoughts, right?
And sights and sounds?
Then why not smells? Mom
didn't like it. Not one bit.

Mom always used to spank my ass
when I looked at girls.
I looked in Dad's stroker mags once,
at least that's what he always called them,
and she caught me and beat me back into the
5th grade.

I wish I could smell like
them,
or be close to them and smell
them all the time.
But I couldn't let Mom know
or it's hard telling
what she might do.

I guess some secrets
are better left hidden away
in your thoughts.