Sometimes I forget I was born to an actual mother
with wide arms and a smile.
Sometimes I feel so grimy
I can’t believe anyone ever longed for me enough
to tear herself open
to give me breath.
Sometimes I think all I am is how he made me
feel:
sunken,
small,
better off
gone.
Sometimes Kelly-Anne told me I wasn’t to blame.
She said, Shit happens, Allie,
but not much else
because we didn’t talk about Mum in my house,
as though exposing the past
could make stuff
worse than it was.
We nudged the truth out of the way with our elbows
and waded through heavy silence.
Until the noise came.
Which it always did.
A tornado of anger and insults,
a one-man performance that left me in turtlenecks
for a week.
Sometimes I forget I was born to an actual mother
who loved me enough to knit a jumper
the colour of Lucozade,
arms like baby carrots.
But she left too soon and never finished it.
She left as soon as I arrived.
She left because I arrived.