I'm eight years old, sat on a bed, my legs crossed
You're there, sat across from me, I've asked
The question. The one that never leaves.
I asked Why.
And you answered. You said "You didn't feel
you could be a mum to me." You're crying
So am I.
I'm 26 years old. Stood in a corner of this
memory. I'm watching you and I'm watching me.
I'm running in front of you and I'm screaming
What does that mean. What the fuck does
I'm a ghost in that thought. I cant touch you.
I cannot protect the child that was me.
I want to shake an answer from you.
Why why why. What do you mean
What is wrong with you? She is a
child. She is your child. She is
innocent and you rejected her.
I pull myself out of the memory
Five things I can see: Photos and folders and books and clothes and flags
Four things I can touch: A duvet, a lamb, a teddy, a pen
Three things I can hear: I'm breathing, the washing machine a train rolling by
Two things I can smell: Home and home.
One deep breath; a life without you.