365 Poems: 22 Underage (Rough First Draft)
I should burn my wardrobe down
with all the clothes inside.
My phone hasn’t gone off in days.
It’s like my friends have become allergic
to saying my name because of this
fetus under my belly button stud.
Mum says ‘deal with the consequences
of your actions’ even though the actions
were six months ago.
But she doesn’t rant and rave like she used to.
She mixes it up with talk of baby formula
on offer in Tesco, a new crèche opening up
down the road, where one of her friends works,
and suggestions of filling my drawers
with nappies for newborns
I’ve had to give my double bed to my sister
so I can fit in the crib and the pushchair.
Mum said she didn’t want it clogging
the hallway. Really I don’t think she’ll mind.
When it comes to it, just she’s still pretty angry.
I’m more scared than anything.
Scared I’ll drop it on its head,
that’ll I’ll hurt it trying to put its clothes on,
scared it’ll freeze to death one night
because I like to leave the window open.
Wasn’t a year ago, when me and the other three
got into mum and dad’s bed, convinced
the world was going to end.
At the Youthie today, someone asked
if I wanted my portrait done, all proper, with paint.
They said it would be displayed at a gallery in Sunderland,
like it’s the most normal thing in the world to happen.
People will look at my portrait and imagine
what I did right after the last bit was painted
and I could stand up, and what I did that night
and for the rest of my life.
This someone said I could take my kid
to see me on the gallery wall.
Didn’t even think of that,
but I feel taller just imagining it.