Poetry: 'Degrees of Difficulty'

There was a girl I used to know 

who would swallow dive on to her 

four poster bed in times of excitement.

 

She’d start her run in the hallway –

ensure the matting was taped down hard.

Trips could lose her points, even smash a nose.

 

Afterwards, whilst smoking French cigarettes,

she’d recount other dives and falls. 

The twist of hate that muscled her heart.