My Inner Child Has a Scottish Accent

by Camille Lewis

Two little words from the lined mouth of my therapist
I can’t help it: instinctively, I cringe.
Inner child.

Open my mouth wide – say ahhh – listen hard for a timid voice.
A grating smokers cough, a mouthful of ash. A slight slur?
Ah eat what you eat, ya wee cow!

She bounces on and off my organs, on and off, giggling
From lung to liver, a slide down my intestines
I don’t broach the topic of rent arrears.

I imagined a doll of a girl, a Matilda with a ribbon
Alice who never become tall.
I could plait her strands; teach her to suck her finger after applying lipstick.

Petulance.
Ahm nae fuckin’ going out there, she says flatly.

Ah can hear what it’s like from in here.