Sometimes I step into the wrong hallway,
and a smell hits me.
Its far away, barley there,
and suddenly I can feel my mother's hands in my hair.
I can see the rays of summer's sun filtering beneath my cousin's eyes and colouring them hazel.
I stare in awe, and she paints my nails, as I lie with my cheek against the wooden floor.
I am watching my father, taller than he ever was, and the tea I've spilled is turning cold against the table.

The coffee's always going cold too fast,
the jeans around my waist are never loose enough.

I'm looking for warmth in blue eyes,
why are they the colour of ice?

Can you hear the buzzing?
Is it crickets in the summer?

Are we beautiful yet?
Are we loved?

My kindness is simply my atonement for my shame.

My goodness only exists to hide my selfishness.

You aren’t your thoughts, I know,

But why do I feel them inside of me?

Why are they crawling,

Dragging through my veins and leaving jagged marks?

Why are they nestling into the cracks of my bones?

I am not good,

But my love is real.

It may not be pure,

It may not be beautiful,

But if you’d let me,

I would rip my own heart from its strings to let you see it.

They would stretch until they were snapped stiff,

ringing out like the threads of a harp.

I’d bare myself to you in all that I am, and all that I am not.

And if knowledge is power,

If ignorance is bliss,

I’ll sink my fingers into my skull,

I’ll dig out my brain and fall to the floor,

I’ll offer it to you, and watch with lulled eyes as you hold it gently to your lips.

Yet I am terrified.

I am terrified that a little girl is watching me,

Silent,

Bearing witness to the monster in her skin.