It was Connor’s fault. Stupid wanker.
I said ‘Connor, no – not without a condom’,
but he wasn’t listening. He grunted –
it was over – over in the back seat
of a nicked Fiesta.
At first I was scared and Mum did her nut,
but I grew comfy with my big fat belly,
sittin up late in front of the telly – a bag of Walkers’
and watchin how Posh was coping with hers.
It was on the day of my English exam,
and I was screamin my own special language
I can tell you, I ripped the air,
squeezin her head out like a bloomin football.
‘Becks’, I said, ‘Becks, we should call you.’
But Tiny Tears is the name I give her,
my own real dolly with working parts.
The old vinyl one watches from the shelf
with her wonky eye and chewed little fingers.
© Caroline Fox Betts 2010