Ambitions of the Author

You’ll study me
for your GCSEs. You’ll hate me, violently
and teachers will disagree
over staffroom coffee and
closed classroom fucking

whether my content
in it’s blood and honesty and self-pity
is appropriate for fifteen year olds
already much more foul than me
and my poetry. You’ll resent me

and tell your friends that I’m a stuck up
self-referential bitch who prittsticks
smut and lies and feeling sorry
then passes it off as poetry
and why do you have to read this shit? Then

you’ll smoke and bang and smile
and think that the friends you have now will last forever. Really? Really.

I see you. Reading me but not really
reading me. Scribbling onto
neon page-placers key words like
Sex. Love. Lonely, no –
Antipathy. Anxiety. Your mother will ask
(concerned, botoxed)
if you’ve revised me and your father
won’t care unless I’m on the telly and
who cares about exams anyway –

These thoughts keep me warm at night
when I wonder if it’s worth writing
and writing
and writing
and puncturing my heart
with a pen. You are sixteen and you’re thinking
Finally – Someone understands me.

It’ll be like me, when I got drunk
on red wine and my first boyfriend and
Plath and Bukowski. Epiphany,
strange that
opening veins for strangers
could be so healing

You’ll see that book later, ten years
twenty – dusty autobiography
shelves full of cookbooks and dead wishes
ignore the notes, pass it absently
to your daughter
so she can learn how hard it is to exist.

About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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