As a child I never knew the shame that sat in the belly of my parents. I see glimpses of it now or more, what’s it turned into. A bottomless pit of home-brand quiches, hand-me down uniforms and inadequacy. The inflammation of survival-mode turning into this chalky fat blanket around the womb. A shame borne from allusive contracts and ungodly hours.

Hurting, being hurt, smiling but hurting and being hurt.

When I got nits, my parents shaved all my hair off.

Poverty is structurally organised.

Shame is not.

Imagine.