if my chest were a juicebox
i could stick a straw through
the filmy layer between my ribs
wrap my arms around myself
and squeeze
and squeeze
until every drop of me was drained

I never wanted to be a mother
Not because I dislike kids
Just wasn't something I ever considered
It was never a priority
Not something I considered in my calculations

Over a year ago
I was asked to be a godmother
Hell why not
They call me Aunt Bootcamp
Self-explanatory
Although kisses and hugs
Are always available

And sure they're cute
But I'm literally
The laziest person I know
Unless I'm working
...Or looking after kids
Appratently

So there he is
"20 months old"
-What is up with the whole month- thing anyway?-
Squeezing the content
Of his juicebox in himself
Laughing like it's greatest thing ever

So his mum put him in the shower
I'm looking for towels
Socks, shirts and extra pants
Cleaning up juice
Off the floor
And the table
Consequence of a glass knocked over

He casually pees on my carpet
And somehow it only made me laugh
Preconditioned to get up
And catch him as he falls
Wondering how I got be so fast
Not even remotely annoyed
As he smiles and looks me in the eye
And does exactly what I said not to do

A man sat on the bench next to me
We wedge ourselves in the armrest
with empty seats to our rights
A bottle of ***** in his hand,
A juicebox in mine

Our eyes tunnel onto the empty space
that envelopes this busy street
in possessed silence as though
we were sat in church pews,
facing the altar,
affixed in prayer.

lipstick on a juicebox

was hell
so poor