I remember being just like you.
That kid with the rucksack.
I was the only one carrying the McKenzie brand.
I was the child from Walkden,
Kicks from JD and Rainbow House chippy.
I wasn’t aware of the term ‘chav’. I must’ve been one, then.
Tell me something so innately personal
That God takes a meat cleaver
And slices your hands off to prevent you dipping into your purse,
Filled with Daddy’s dough and his measuring tape,
That he uses for dick-measuring,
With the rest of his rich-beyond-sense colleagues.
Whilst you think,
I’ll unhinge my boxes for you.
I am humble, deep down.
It is the waves of traffic and Chanel bags that abuse me.
I am not meant for hair, as straight as a bullet in motion,
I am not meant for make up, painted as though Monet spat all over you,
I am the kid that had tissue thrown at them on the coach.
Who fought to sit at the back and waited the 7 miserable years to look effortlessly cool,
By which point,
Seats no longer mattered.
Do your first class seats to the Bahamas matter?
I just wondered.
They ask me why now,
Why does this all come out now,
Why do you confess now,
And I don’t really know.
Maybe I am resentful.
Maybe I am disgusted.
We were all children once,
We all threw things at people,
We all grieved and gave each other grief.
Its been a while since I remembered the details,
But I needed brands to define me at school,
So I could be the private school girl.
At university, they plague me for it.
But I do not mind.
It is funny Izzy,
That in different worlds, different people
Scoop you up into a glass,
And watch you.
They often toss you out of the window like you were the unwanted guest,
The small insect nobody wanted in their home.
I wear myself like the skin of a cockroach,
With the words on my tongue
As though the sea had tattooed me with its salt,
And I wear myself free,
From Paul’s Boutique, from Kors,
From Mini Coopers and Volkswagen Polos at the age of 17.
I wear myself inside out Izzy,
I bleed rain.
And it doesn’t matter when the traffic goes or how many Urban Outfitters I see,
I can’t afford this stuff, really.
Drop us a KFC any day over this prom dress lark.
I didn’t go to prom anyway.
But I still consume because the world tells me I should be more like you.
I wear the skin of the oceans,
I nuzzle my heart as if it were made of feathers,
I breathe like how we drop dice,
And that urge for two sixes finally appears.
Older as I become,
A cottage with 3 children sounds more fun
Than Gucci bags,
But every man for himself,
Every woman for herself;
I used to care, I used to dick-measure,
Now I am happy with lemonade and my Mother at my side.
That’s it for now Izzy,
I don’t have any other manuscript from the air to translate to you.
We all die.
Old age seems so far away doesn’t it,
But its 2016 next month?
Anyway, we made a deal.
Tell me your secrets,
The treasure in your tongue,
The designers stuffed in your wardrobe.
What’s it like on the other side of the coin?
Its your turn now.