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?
As the ink is spilt
Does this mean...