Saturday, 7 September 2013


You sound tired of me,
like I have done something
you long to forget,
wipe clean from your memory
'til there is no trace.

A blank space
where you can implant the child
I should have been.

The small hand who would
cling to yours,
contented with all that was her lot,
or die trying.

If it brings you any comfort,
I do.

And I am as tired as me as you are.

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