she never needed no therapy,
no medicine, no painkillers,
no antidepressants,
all she needed was to be held
while she grieved, mourned
her lost childhood
and the dreams she never had,
the hopes that died before she grew..
half of her memory
is lost in a timeline she can't recall,
the only thing she remembers is waking up to
an empty, cold, soulless world..
she kept praying, day and night,
for death to take her away
somewhere she'd find
some solace, some peace
a place to hide, go unnoticed
while all she needed was to be found, seen
all she needed was for the people
who brought her into this world
to tell her they didn't know any better
to say that they couldn't give
what they never received
instead they were raised to be
emotionless machines
except anger for it was the very thing
that dominated the house..
i don't know how someone like her
came out of them
she's too different,
she can't be normal,
she can't function on autopilot,
she can't pretend there's nothing wrong
with everything,
with how they live their lives,
with the world..
she somehow survived
when all she ever wanted was to die,
she puts on a mask that says "i'm fine"
but on the inside she keeps falling apart
she doesn't know who to trust
because she's been burned
one too many times,
falling into hands that only
took her for granted,
trying to find missing pieces of herself
without losing the essence
of who she really is..
she's tired of fighting for what
should be given away freely without a price
she's tired of having to prove herself, her worth..
she never learned that
she was enough
just being herself, the way she is
not needing anyone's approval
not needing to break, bend or shrink
to fit in somewhere she can call "home"
searching in all the wrong places
for what already exists within her
when she comes back to herself
when she steps outside the bubble
of hate, resentment and trauma..
forgives those who didn't know
how to love a soul like hers
forgives those who couldn't show
how much they loved their daughter
how much it would tear their souls apart
to lose her..

They said, "Be mature, you're our only daughter,  
We have expectations, don't drift any farther."  
Not knowing how they crushed each hope she had,  
And left her heart empty, forever sad.  

They told her to act like a child, to play,  
But when could she? She was forced to obey.  
Left alone in a house that was dark and cold,  
She grew strong, but her heart turned old.  

They said, "You're tough, don't cry over pain,  
These little scratches are nothing to explain."  
Not seeing she'd grow, hurting deep inside,  
Where pain was a secret, she could never hide.  

She thought it was fine, that it was okay,  
She still does it now, though it hurts every day.  
Punished for things that she'd never done,  
Now she repeats it when the day is done.  

She was invincible, or so they believed,  
But deep down, she was neglected, deceived.  
Never loved, just a little girl.

It's 2015, summertime, with
an afternoon sunshine
gently roasting the cheeks
of a little girl into a
healthy flush. The sweet
sanctuary of the cafe after
school; a fresh playground
amidst the summer heat.
Familiarity, an endless finality of
every poster and notice
memorised through timeless
hours, teaching her
how to read through adverts for
baby sitters
ballet instructors
late-night knitting groups.
School tie discarded, slung
over the back of a squeaky
cafe chair, the usual, she drags
her mum to the counter,
towards the fiery face smiling
behind the till. Warm eyes,
sparkling with stories and life,
already talking to her mum about
her new school teacher
the new muffin recipe
her dad's latest gig.
Her face, bronzed by foreign heat
folds as she guffaws across the cafe,
careless, laughing , at a joke
the little girl doesn't yet
understand. Handfuls
of pink marshmallows,
sweet and pure, exchange hands
with a wink and a 'don't tell your mum'.
The girl sticks two together and calls them butterflies.
The broken clock near the door
shows the same time
as it did an hour ago, hands suspended, never-ending.

I carry flowers, an expensive bunch
of lilies and roses,
tilted in towards my chest - like
a child in a green paper blanket - to protect
them against the gale as
I carry sympathy home. The rain
soaks through the paper. I nip
off a dead leaf between my forefinger
and thumb, thoughts lingering,
nose turning numb. Four years
since I spoke to Mandy, at
'Mandy's Cafe!'
whisked away by time briskly slipping.
Moving house, growing up.
And yet, when
the sun comes out later today,
I see a little girl with scooter-hit
ankles, and glitter in her hair
reaching out a tiny ink-stained hand
for a warm buttered roll
from a hand memorised
through timeless hours.

My inner child cries
Watching my animal self
Unfolding like sludge