My mother

Image of my mancipation.

This house isn't big enough for us both;
tight as a womb we struggle to breathe,
grappling against the suppressed air.

We know each-other too well -
I've seen the subcutaneous,
blood-red interior at the centre of your body
and you saw me cry because I couldn't spell.

You sat on the edge of my bed trying to convince me of a time when you too wore knee-socks and feared ghosts, now we wonder whether we want to hurt each-other.

I don't blame your reasoning:
I know now you're more trapped than I am.
I wont cry, the walls are too thin;
instead I'll try to prove my distance,
bitter urban teen, stronger colder generation;
but I know you know the birth mark on my right hand,
and the hurt expression when I wasn't asked to play.

Laura Burdon lives in Newcastle in the UK.

Please email me if you want to contact the author.