I wrote this just after my first internship and I doubt I am the only young woman to panic at the stages of transitioning from child to adult:
My beige mack ties me up in a waist band of calm;
chosen to match my two-tone low cut heels.
Coffee mug in hand, containing hot chocolate
that threads me back to my marshmallow days,
Comfort from those high school stresses,
the successes that carried me to this internship,
as I transition my way into an adult world,
where people email someone sat next to them.
Moving from homework to no home and underpaid work:
I am a teenager; a young adult
who could have died for my country a thousand times
in the last two years, but only just allowed to vote.
Show me where my shadow of debt can shed itself;
make a suggestion of where I may be of use?
When I was six I held a sale for Water Aid
and I still tick the £5 box. But I’m not sure
that researching or fighting for ‘human rights’
in a ‘Western culture’ that abandoned my ambition,
has worked, because I’m not sure
of what I was once ambitious for now I’m here.
But I still smile at the child who points and says,
‘Look mummy, that’s the woman who works at the BBC’,
I was that woman; but not a woman
and where am I going next?