Personal Problems: 8th Account

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.

Dear Izzy,
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’ll confess.
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.
Beautiful.
Quiet.
Loaded.

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?

So strange.

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.

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