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
that mean.

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.

Rejected me.

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.