There are no pictures of the forgotten child
just second hand memories
of a police station handmedown
and too many mothers.

There are no echoes of my smile to be found in family albums

No book to lovingly hold the dates of firsts unwitnessed by love.

Yellowed paper bears witness to my existence, a name given, typed above that of an unknown Father and a mother too new to bear my needs.

There are no tales of first days and birthdays, no tears of joy at my arrival, nor at my loss.
Just me, a girl with no past and a stolen future, screaming at shadows while clutching at straws, hoping that someday my face will be reflected by that which I did not create.