It's not mine.

Mother's airing the laundry,

but she's not mine, and it's not mine.

Hanging a sheet by stiff pegs,

as it protests in the wind

that felt so warm yesterday. 


It is clean, and white 

But i know it's lying, because once you know

You can see where he lay his head,

All the specks of red,

Marks of breakfast in the bed.


You can sneer at this imposter,

But i will wash it again and again,

because i can't just find a new one,

I can't pretend this ones not mine,

When I have to wear it round me like a shawl. 


I'd snatch it down, from it's display 

If it wasn't trapped between teeth.

I'd shout at the audience,

to look away

If i wasn't pretending it wasn't mine. 


Am I the child who ruined

the walls with felt tip?

No longer

As the ink is spilt

Does this mean...


I'm grown,

I'm used, 

I'm lost,

I'm dead,

I'm his? 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed