The little girl and i

i have very little claim to my own self: my reflection, my thoughts.

the deeds are tangled up in everyone else’s mess and garbage, love songs and

crumpled paper;

the best of me blurs at the edges of my mum’s tape collection, my dad’s love for hilary

mantel, and my sister.

the worst is tangled up in treatment letters and faint scars.

nestled between belts, old photos, sheets sent to the charity and shoes held together

with dog-chewed laces is the part i try to forget: that stain on my chest.

scrubbed and scratched…

never fully gone

i didn’t realise that so much has changed:

i have lost the body that died at 17

i have built anew out of the rubble, draped gauze and other flimsy things around my

limbs

i am the battered hands holding a little girl close to my chest.

i am hoping that if i hold her close enough she will shine through the overlay in her

yellow dress

i am telling myself that as long as i remember (the best, the worst and the rest)

the little girl can’t fade.

she keeps wearing her yellow dress