Mid-Wank in my Childhood Bedroom
Last night
my dad and I
fought about a pair of shoes.
But I suspect it runs much deeper than that.
Deeper than processing an H&M return
Deeper than the unethical glossy leather
“BUT WHY CAN’T YOU ADJUST?”
It’s not just boots, it’s a metaphor for my
need
to establish autonomy.
Every summer I come back home,
and the bed shrinks. An inch
at a time, so that I don’t notice.
When my dad hugs me at the airport
for the first time since September 2021,
I am taken by surprise.
There’s a stain on the wall,
where a mosquito died
and it’s been there since 2013
etched beside my fake pseudonym.
When I was 11, I wanted to be called
“Jennifer” so bad. This is where I had
my Murder Mystery themed party.
Now all the trophies on the wall
stare back at me -
disappointed?
On the car ride back
from my favourite chip shop,
my dad tells me;
“THIS IS YOUR HOMETOWN”.
I sneak out and
buy a single cigarette
but I’m too afraid to smoke it.
I am too afraid that
he reads my poems.
Home is a generous word, for a city I can
hardly breathe in.
But when I go to my bookshelf,
all I see are books he bought for me.
Books I can probably quote through
gin-stained lips when I try to sound important
or cool or desirable.
Sitting across from men that
really should know better.
And I am thinking about
my head bashing against
Mr. Beer Breath’s car
How he wouldn’t care
if he hurt me
How much that
turned me on
and there
I am lace and tits
and double vodka lemonades.
I am always mistaken
to be older than I am.
I am so busy being lost,
legs on your shoulder,
I just want you to
dig deep and find me.
And here, I realize
It’s not the bed that’s been shrinking.
At home, I am fifteen
and have never sinned
I am so close
to finding myself,
hands muddy from all this digging.
And when I spread my legs
I hardly fit into these
boy shorts anymore.
When did my experiences become bigger than this
Lightning McQueen pillow?
When did my own skin
become so stretched thin?