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07 novembre 2012

How I feel about poo right now.

Oui, c'est en anglais.


Your baby is perfect

Until you mess her up.

Suddenly, she’s scared of things.

She can’t do things. She needs you.

She’s frightened, scared, shy — you’ve messed her up.

You did it, yes, you. You’re her mother. That’s what mothers do.

Little babies are perfect. They grow out of things.

Children grow into things. They build things up, day by day,

Night after night. Based on the things you say, you do.

The stuff you shout when you lose your temper

Because you do things like that - lose your temper.

You’re human, and that’s what humans do.

And all that stuff you think, that nasty, poisonous stuff you think,

She knows you’re thinking it. It oozes from your every pore, leaks from your every move.

You try to hide it, but nature has a way

Of getting its own back.


You don’t know what it is exactly that you did

To mess her up in this way.

But you know it’s you. It’s always you. You, and your stupid humanity.

Over-reacting, under-reacting, telling off being nice being mean being nice

Taking it easy telling a lie telling the truth messing her up.

Every day you mess her up. You can’t win.

She’s beautiful and sweet and lovely and charming

And scared and cry-ey and horrible.

And messed up.

And yes, it’s all because of you.