Memory is a blank page for me,
Scooped out with a warmed spoon
And gooey on the tongue,
And I still cannot tell you what brought me
Joy as a child.
I read somewhere that craving love
Is a coping mechanism–
Seeking out too often the open arms
Of another is a way to fill the void
Left by family that should have been
there to catch you.
I look back and I see foggy windows.
I hear laughter, muffled by closed doors,
Watching a scene play out before me
That I can never join,
Always chasing down the past.
I am by no means a child of abuse,
But I am the child left behind,
And I am tired.
I want to believe my melancholy
Is someone’s else’s,
That I don’t own the key
To that lock,
But I do.