I thought being a teenager was tiring –
Angsty, in tiny panties, snogging in pantries,
Pay as you go phone on loan from Mum and mouth full of Hullabaloo bubble gum,
Cheap perfume, Charlie deodorant, Mizz, Cosmo,
Staring at armpits, waiting for the occasional hair to grow,
Smoking Marlboroughs without inhaling,
Attempting school exams and failing,
Angry diary entries and dramatic love letters
To teenage boys interested only in weed and the odd computer game
Each week the declaration of love addressed to a different lad’s name,
Disappointment, depression on the rejection of each confession,
Then the desperate suppression of feelings,
Hours spent sleepless, staring at ceilings,
Absurdly self obsessed, crushingly insecure,
The constant feeling that I couldn’t take any more..
I thought that was tiring…
I thought my first job was tiring..
After three lazy years at uni, I was tied to a desk – desperate for approval,
Eager to please and terrified of reproval,
Stuck in the web of lies formed in my CV disguise,
GCSE french forged as fluency
Late nights in the office quickly turned
to later nights spending cash newly earned,
Chasing around my first love – he was older and angry,
Trying to prove that I was rageful and worthy,
Candle burning at all ends – seeking scurvy,
Mac and cheese for lunch and an afternoon Apple Mac pass-out when nobody was about
Stinking of booze, dehydrated and fixated on bed,
But on leaving the office, going for a ‘few’ drinks instead,
A vicious circle of contortion and exhaustion,
Ignoring all bodily signs to take caution,
I thought that was tiring…
Feeding, burping, jiggling, playing, watching every move and swaying,
Panicked, anxious or in utter bliss, googling – What’s that? What’s this?
Up, down, up, up up and down again,
Take a deep breath and count to ten
2am, 4am, 6am and then awake – that’s it, the night has gone,
The day is even more full on
Nappy change, breast, nappy change, breast,
Or unable to move as someone is sleeping on my chest,
All plans out the window, going nowhere fast,
Leaving the house now the most momentous task,
High on Adrenalin and purpose
or tearful, scared and morose,
If not feeding or assisting in napping and crapping,
I’m in a state – marching about and flapping,
I have no control over time, it’s not something I own,
And nor are my arms, ‘they’re too weak’ I moan
As they get caught in awkward positions and go dead from weight,
I arrive at everything a milk drenched zombie who’s horribly late,
He’s either in a sling, attached to my boob or rocking in my arms
While I try desperately to keep him happy and calm,
Dabbing my nipple as it squirts milk everywhere,
Or trying to remove curdled spit up from my hair,
I spend hours staring at his miniscule hands and feet,
Or bouncing on the spot to get him to sleep,
But one thing is for sure. I do not really sleep anymore.
My mouth is filled with ulcers and my eyes with styes,
and I realise all those times I thought I was tired from merely staying up late,
That wasn’t anything at all.
I knew rest was coming – It only ever lasted a night or two,
And would eventually end in sleep – that I always knew.
No I wasn’t tired then,
Now I am tired,
Now I am tired.
