Since it’s just us, we can look at this egg and call it a baby. One year my body was serving a purpose (thick octopus costume) then another (sea-slicked revenge suit) now I just Google hip pain a lot. I don’t know how I’d care for a tadpole, but that feels important. What would I do with an electric blue jellyfish, its wet jewelled tentacles splayed in my palm? Everyone says you’ll know what to do, like a slippery omen from the ocean’s mouth. Every minute with children feels like a test. What if they think I don’t get it? What if after all those piercing critiques of my mother, I do everything wrong? Every salt cliff picking its skin is an invitation to jump. Some nights I wake up thinking I’ve ruined my life. It’s always the same dream: two sweaty hands on the wheel of a car I can’t drive.
YANITA GEORGIEVA is a Bulgarian poet and journalist. She is currently based in London, where she is pursuing an MA in Poetry at Royal Holloway University. You can find her work in Poetry Wales, Gutter Magazine, and elsewhere.